“I think I could find a patron saint for Moodie,” said Lady Mabel.  “At least I do not think he would have been startled as I was, on hearing a minister of the Kirk, after exhausting his powers of eulogy on the great Apostle of the Gentiles, crown his praise by likening the prisoner Paul preaching boldly in bonds before the Roman governor, in whose hand was his life, to John Knox, the mouth-piece of the dominant faction, bullying a lady and his queen, a capture in their hands.  This was a strange canonization of John Knox, or a singular degradation of St. Paul.  But I see that our dinner waits us; and though this is a charming spot, we must not linger here too long.  I am sure,” she added, “that the shy and meditative stork, who left us so abruptly, must be a deep theologian, for it was he who suggested this learned discertation on the church.”

The travelers dined here under the shade of the trees, and soon after took horse again.  Moodie threw himself into the saddle with a spirit and activity which led Lady Mabel to say:  “Your good wine, Colonel L’Isle, has done wonders for Moodie.  It carries him well through the labors of the day.”

“It seems to have cured his ailing body,” said L’Isle, “but has not mellowed his temper.  He grows more crusty than ever.”

“In him,” said Lady Mabel, “crustiness is the natural condition, and betokens health.”

They had ridden but a little way, when she heard Moodie call to her, and reining in her horse, she let him come up alongside of her.  He evidently wished to speak to her in private, for he kept silence until L’Isle and Mrs. Shortridge were out of hearing, and looked cautiously round to see that the servants were not too near.

“My lady,” said he, in a solemn manner, “I have been looking at you, wondering if you are the same girl I have seen for years growing up under my eye.”

“Another, yet the same,” said she.  “I have not yet quite lost my personal identity.”

“And how many months is it since we left Scotland?”

“Weeks you mean, Moodie, it is scarcely yet time to count by months.”

“Weeks, then, have made a wondrous change in you.”

“I suspect that often happens in the progress of life,” said Lady Mabel.  “We seem to stand still for a while at a monotonous stage of our existence; a sudden change of condition comes, and we leap forward toward maturity.  So, too, we may for years continue young in heart and health; some heavy trouble or deep grief overtakes us, and we at once are old.”

“It is not a leap forward in life that you have made, but a leap aside, out of your own character.  It amazes me to see you galloping wildly over this outlandish country, without a thought but flowers, soldiers, and sightseeing.  I sometimes think you bewitched.”

“What is more likely?” said Lady Mabel.  “To us silly women, flowers, soldiers, and sightseeing, are the most bewitching things in the world.”