While Cecil went away to put on her travelling dress, as sometimes happens, the true bearing of the speech flashed on her; and when her step-daughter returned, arrayed en voyageuse, Mrs. Rolleston considerately remarked,—­“How dull I shall be without you!  I think I’ll write to Bertie;” and the quick, grateful glance of intelligence in Cecil’s eyes encouraged her to say much more in that letter than she would otherwise have done.

CHAPTER XIX.

CALF LOVE.

I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o’ bonnie blue;
’Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses wet wi’ dew—­
Her graceful bosom lily white—­
It was her een sae bonnie blue. 

                                          —­Scotch Song.

The arrival of the Rolleston family created a good deal of interest in the limited society of the lake, and not entirely of a friendly nature.  Needless to say, the adolescent members of it were all more or less engaged to each other, which, being rather the result of propinquity than uncontrollable preference, the maidens noticed with angry surprise the admiration excited in the bosoms of their swains by the apparition of Bluebell on their hitherto uninvaded waters.  Alec Gough and Bernard Lumley, both morally placarded “engaged,” having, as a matter of course, plighted their troth to two neighbouring fledglings, were wild for an introduction; and no sooner did Bluebell’s canoe leave Lyndon’s Landing, than two corresponding ones were sure to shoot out, apparently actuated by the same persuasion that there was no more likely place for a fish than the snag round which she was trolling, and ready to gaff a maskinonge, or help to land an obdurate bass, if occasion offered.

Any such incident might have commenced an acquaintance, were it not that Miss Prosody, with a boatful of children, was never far off, and had a scaring and terrifying effect.

Bluebell rather despised very young men.  Still, she was not insensible to admiration, and was quite aware of these two young aborigines following in her wake as surely as a gull in that of a vessel.

One day Alec Gough was able to render her some slight assistance, her line being obstinately entangled in the snag; but Miss Prosody sternly brought up the boatman to complete the service, and bowed off the interloper with such extreme severity, that Bluebell could not resist bestowing a coquettish and dangerously grateful glance, which set his heart bumping, and instantaneously obliterated the image of his sandy-haired little love.

It was too bad of Alec, for he had been engaged a year, and had already cleared (he was a lumberer) space enough in the backwoods to start a farm, and he was now on a short visit to his betrothed to report progress and pursue his suit.  So he had no business to get his heart entangled with the line, and his legitimate affections disengaged with the string he was clearing, under Circe’s azure eyes; and why need he, in that tactless manner, talk of her at tea as “The Lady of the Lake”? which, if such a senseless sobriquet was worth having at all, Miss Janet Cameron considered she had an indisputable right to, for could she not row, swim, dive, and paddle with the best?