Here was a wild and beautiful scene.  A waterfall rolled from a height, over rocks and brushwood, down into a foaming stream beneath, that rushed, in its turn, over huge stones through the dark ravine.

As Netta stood almost at the base of the waterfall, and on the edge of the rapid brook, something like reflection took possession of her volatile mind.  There was a solemn gloom and grandeur about the scene that reminded her of the Sabbath she was desecrating, and therewith of her parents, and her duty to them.  For a moment—­only for a moment—­she thought she would return, and strive to atone for the falsehood, by giving up the object of her evening wandering.  But a bright gleam of sunshine darted through the trees—­the stream foamed and leapt towards it—­the waterfall sparkled beneath—­the arrowy fern glittered like gold, and Netta’s heart forgot her duty, and thought of her recreant lover.  Her repentance must come in gloom, her sin in sunshine.

She plucked a bunch of the wild roses that hung around and above her, and dashed them petulantly into the stream.  She watched them as their course was interrupted by the large masses of rock, and they were tossed here and there by the angry mischievous water.  At last they hung trembling on a huge stone, stranded, as it were, on their impetuous course.  Again, for a moment, a serious comparison arose in her mind, and she wondered whether her life might be like that of the flowers she had cast away from her? whether she might be carried, by the force of contending passions, and left to wither upon some hard shore that as yet she knew not of.  Such ideas naturally present themselves to the mind of all who are not wholly devoid of imagination and when the rapid stream again bore, away the bunch of roses, and Netta saw them no more, she had quite believed that such would be her course upon the troubled waters of the world.

But she was not long left to speculate upon her future.  Whilst her eyes were yet fixed upon the spot whence the roses had vanished, she felt a hand on her shoulder, heard a voice call her name, and starting round, saw her cousin Howel behind her.  He had crept so softly down that she had not heard him, and she uttered a sharp cry that sounded like one of terror, as she suddenly felt his touch.

‘A strange greeting, Netta,’ were the first words, after they had shaken hands.

’You frightened me, and why were you not here sooner?  I have been waiting an hour,’ was the rejoinder, in a tone of voice that belied the radiant joy of the young face.

Suddenly Netta seemed to recollect something that brought a shadow over the sunshine.

’Cousin Howel, I—­I am very sorry for you.  Poor Uncle Griff!  How is aunt?—­and you—­you look ill, Howel; what is the matter?’

It was difficult for Netta to know what to say about the death of the miser.  She was not sorry, and she could not tell how her cousin felt.