It was Euphra’s.

“Oh!” replied Harry, “Mr. Sutherland is teaching me geography with a telescope.  It’s such fun!”

“He’s a wonderful tutor, that of yours, Harry!”

“Yes, isn’t he just?  But,” Harry went on, turning to Hugh, “what are we to do now?  We can’t get farther for that hill.”

“Ah! we must apply to your papa now, to lend us some of his beautiful maps.  They will teach us what lies beyond that hill.  And then we can read in some of his books about the places; and so go on and on, till we reach the beautiful, wide, restless sea; over which we must sail in spite of wind and tide —­ straight on and on, till we come to land again.  But we must make a great many such journeys before we really know what sort of a place we are living in; and we shall have ever so many things to learn that will surprise us.”

“Oh! it will be nice!” cried Harry.

After a little more geographical talk, they put up their instruments, and began to descend the hill.  Harry was in no need of Hugh’s back now, but Euphra was in need of his hand.  In fact, she appealed for its support.

“How awkward of me!  I am stumbling over the heather shamefully!”

She was, in fact, stumbling over her own dress, which she would not hold up.  Hugh offered his hand; and her small one seemed quite content to be swallowed up in his large one.

“Why do you never let me put you on your horse?” said Hugh.  “You always manage to prevent me somehow or other.  The last time, I just turned my head, and, behold! when I looked, you were gathering your reins.”

“It is only a trick of independence, Hugh —­ Mr. Sutherland —­ I beg your pardon.”

I can make no excuse for Euphra, for she had positively never heard him called Hugh:  there was no one to do so.  But, the slip had not, therefore, the less effect; for it sounded as if she had been saying his name over and over again to herself.

“I beg your pardon,” repeated Euphra, hastily; for, as Hugh did not reply, she feared her arrow had swerved from its mark.

“For a sweet fault, Euphra —­ I beg your pardon —­ Miss Cameron.”

“You punish me with forgiveness,” returned she, with one of her sweetest looks.

Hugh could not help pressing the little hand.

Was the pressure returned?  So slight, so airy was the touch, that it might have been only the throb of his own pulses, all consciously vital about the wonderful woman-hand that rested in his.  If he had claimed it, she might easily have denied it, so ethereal and uncertain was it.  Yet he believed in it.  He never dreamed that she was exercising her skill upon him.  What could be her object in bewitching a poor tutor?  Ah! what indeed?