AN observation made during dinner on the first evening of my second visit to Lough Shellach had, as I remembered, been hazarded on a similar occasion two years previously.

Some one said then, and indeed I had often heard it said before, "How charming Marjory Fraser is! there is no one like her:" then would come a moment's pause, and either the speaker's own voice continued, or another person would take it up,-in any case the remark was quite sure to follow,-"I wonder she has never married!"

This was the signal for a multitude of conjectures, of speculations, of decided, well-built reasons, which crumbled into ruins at the next breath; of probable prosaic or romantic causes which only existed in their inventor's imagination. Everybody contradicted

everybody else, in all politeness of course, but still gave a flat denial to the truth of the last statement. Even the young ladies on their preferment, who spoke of Marjory as "quite old"-and indeed she was thirty-six (fancy a heroine of thirty-six! what shall we come to next?)—agreed that she was neither prim, nor cross, nor spiteful; nor did she possess any of the evil qualities with which the conventional daughter of St. Catherine is usually credited.

I often think it is the men who ought to feel envious and angry when they see how many of the most thoroughly agreeable and beautiful women in the world they have been unable to lure into the house of bondage! But they are not supposed to care, whilst we poor spinsters go down to posterity as examples of baffled ambition. At all events no one could say that of Marjory Fraser, for although, especially latterly, she lived a quiet and retired life, she refused many offers more or less desirable. Her own solution of the mystery was contained in the words, "What would Papa do without me?" But the handsome old laird used to scold her well if this reason ever came to his ears, and scouted the idea of any such selfishness on his side, declaring loudly that he wished his Madge to marry, although she was the apple of his eye.

I should not have been a true woman if I had not felt great anxiety, the first time I listened to all this talk concerning Marjory Fraser, to see the lady who contrived to interest her neighbours so much without giving the least cause for an ill-natured remark. So after dinner I heard with secret satisfaction that we were going the next day on a boating excursion to the head of the loch, ostensibly to catch fish, but really to spend a whole happy idle holiday out of doors.

Scotch people seem the most gregarious in the world, and always like to enjoy themselves in company; therefore, although the Frasers lived nearly eight miles off they were bidden to this picnic; and it was arranged that we were to be joined by the party from Glenthorne a little higher up the loch. I would fain linger over the details of that delightful water journey; I would fain let memory touch with loving faithful fingers each happy moment, especially the happiest of all, when, after the bustle of settling ourselves in the boat was over, the first vigorous strokes floated us out from the shore, giving us a fuller view of the beauty of sky and water, and of the distant hill-tints; but if I have made you feel one quarter of my impatience to see Marjory Fraser you will not thank me for delaying to word-sketch by the way.

I remember that, although generally too lazy and too selfish to be in the least curious about my neighbours' affairs, I leant forward to look at the picturesque group which came in sight after we had rounded the second headland. It did not require the obtrusive loud sigh of my next neighbour, a gigantic but susceptible artilleryman, to tell me that Marjory Fraser was of the party; nor, although there were other ladies among the group, did I need to inquire which was she. "Pray, how did you know?" a carping auditor inquired the first time I told this tale viva voce.

Well, I didn't know, I guessed, and guessed rightly. I felt that, according to the fitness of things, no one else of the party before us could or ought to be Marjory, except the lady who was lightly jumping off her shaggy pony as we suddenly turned the corner and shot in sight of the Glenthorne contingent. We could hear her clear ringing voice, the voice which is distinct without being loud, as she said, "Too late, sir;" and we could see by the laird's outstretched hands to whom the laughing little reproach was addressed.

I want to make you see the bright group as my eyes saw it that lovely autumn morning; but I don't know at what part of a picture an artist begins to paint. My instinct leads me to commence with the

foreground, as that is what seems to arrest the attention first; and then as one looks, all the harmonious details of the composition gradually make themselves seen and felt.

To begin, then, according to this theory, with the striking figure of the laird. He had his back to us, and his arms extended towards Marjory and her pony. The Highland dress is quite as becoming to old men as to young ones, which is one of its many advantages; and we used often to declare that Mr. Fraser looked as if he had stepped out of one of Scott's novels or Landseer's pictures. Although his face was rugged in feature, and even in these holiday moments showed deep lines of care and anxiety, the kindly glance of his honest eyes, and his sweet genial smile, made a new acquaintance, as I was, feel like an old friend directly; and one only needed to see him with his daughter by his side to perceive how chivalrous was his devotion to her. There was a

Mrs. Fraser in the world; a perfectly amiable, contented, and harmless woman, whose existence everybody forgot.

It was rather ridiculous to find that in speaking of the Glenthorne party, none of them excited any interest or special mention except the laird and Marjory, which omission generally led strangers to