“Aye, aye, there,” hailed a voice, as Manners was helping Dorothy off the riding-stone into the saddle, “whither away so gaily?”

“Aye, Everard,” replied his friend, as he turned round and saw who it was that called.  “Hurry up, we are off for a ride.”

“Shall I come, too?” he inquired, as he hastened up and stood beside them.

“Do,” returned Dorothy.  “Make haste, though, for time is precious with us now.”

“I will not keep you waiting, fair Mistress Dorothy,” he gallantly responded; “I will follow thee anon.  Which way am I to come, Bakewell, Cromford, or which?”

“Oh, Cromford,” replied Sir Henry quickly.  “See how restive my horse is, he will bolt off if I try to hold him in much longer.  Are we ready?  Let us go then; time is short, remember,” and giving the rein to his steed he started off at a good pace, whilst the others followed quickly in his wake.

It was a beautiful day, and the scenery around was so majestically grand that even its familiarity did not detract from its beauty in the eyes of the little party as it rode laughingly by.  The early leaves were just beginning to drop from off the parent stems; the ferns and bracken, which grew in abundance on either side of the road, were just assuming their peculiar fading, golden hue, whilst the hardier leaves were just beginning to bedeck themselves in the full glory of their rich autumnal tints.

“This is beautiful,” exclaimed Dorothy, enthusiastically, as she gazed enraptured at the rich variety of form and colour which met them at every turn.  “Look at those cliffs.  It is lovely, it is grand.”

They had just passed the little hamlet of Matlock Bath, and were approaching Cromford.  There were no stone walls then to hide from view even the smallest portion of the gorgeous picture.  From the road to the Derwent there sloped a narrow strip of marshy meadow, which covered itself with a superabundance of luxurious tall grasses and tough bracken.  Beyond the stream there rose, standing straight up by the water’s edge, a wall of jagged and scarred rock, overgrown with trees and climbing foliage, which was faithfully mirrored in the placid water below.  The scene could hardly fail to appeal to their sense of beauty.

Manners avowed that he thought it the fairest spot on earth, and De la Zouch, not to be outdone in gallantry, added that the presence of so fair a maiden as Dorothy Vernon in the midst of so much natural beauty made a picture a better than which he never desired to see.

“And, after all, fair Dorothy,” he concluded, “I wot that it is but the reflection of thine own sweet form and peerless grace.”

Dorothy frowned.  She did not care for compliments from Sir Henry de la Zouch; she always feared them, for they generally had a sting somewhere, and she had noticed that, as a rule, they were followed by something more or less unpleasant.

“Sir Everard has not come yet,” she exclaimed, turning round in her saddle, “perhaps he is not coming after all?”