llow out the path in which he was at
present engaged, which, being a favourite walk with his sister, she
might perhaps have adopted from mere habit, when in a state of mind,
which, he had too much reason to fear, must have put choice out of the
question.

He soon reached the summer-house, which was merely a seat covered
overhead and on the sides, open in front, and neatly paved with pebbles.
This little bower was perched, like a hawk's nest, almost upon the edge
of a projecting crag, the highest point of the line of rock which we
have noticed; and had been selected by poor Clara, on account of the
prospect which it commanded down the valley. One of her gloves lay on
the small rustic table in the summer-house. Mowbray caught it eagerly
up. It was drenched with wet--the preceding day had been dry; so that,
had she forgot it there in the morning, or in the course of the day, it
could not have been in that state. She had certainly been there during
the night, when it rained heavily.

Mowbray, thus assured that Clara had been in this place, while her
passions and fears were so much afloat as they must have been at her
flight from her father's house, cast a hurried and terrified glance from
the brow of the precipice into the deep stream that eddied below. It
seemed to him that, in the sullen roar of the water, he heard the last
groans of his sister--the foam-flakes caught his eye, as if they were a
part of her garments. But a closer examination showed that there was no
appearance of such a catastrophe. Descending the path on the other side
of the bower, he observed a foot-print in a place where the clay was
moist and tenacious, which, from the small size, and the shape of the
shoe, it appeared to him must be a trace of her whom he sought. He
hurried forward, therefore, with as much speed, as yet permitted him to
look out keenly for similar impressions, of which it seemed to him he
remarked several, although less perfect than the former, being much
obliterated by the quantity of rain that had since fallen,--a
circumstance seeming to prove that several hours had elapsed since the
person had passed.

At length, through the various turnings and windings of a long and
romantic path, Mowbray found himself, without having received any
satisfactory intelligence, by the side of the brook, called St. Ronan's
Burn, at the place where it was crossed by foot-passengers, by the
Clattering Brig, and by horsemen through a ford a little lo