Then
she rose, went up to the door of the cottage, called a good night to
Tibbie, and took her way home.
CHAPTER LII.
My story has not to do with city-life, in which occur frequent shocks,
changes, and recombinations, but with the life of a country region; and
is, therefore, "to a lingering motion bound," like the day, like the
ripening of the harvest, like the growth of all good things. But clouds
and rainbows will come in the quietest skies; adventures and
coincidences in the quietest village.
As Kate and Alec walked along the street, on their way to the castle,
one of the coaches from the county-town drove up with its four
thorough-breds.
"What a handsome fellow the driver is!" said Kate.
Alec looked up at the box. There sat Beauchamp, with the ribbons in his
grasp, handling his horses with composure and skill. Beside him sat the
owner of the coach, a _laird_ of the neighbourhood.
Certainly Beauchamp was a handsome fellow. But a sting went through
Alec's heart. It was the first time that he thought of his own person
in comparison with another. That she should admire Beauchamp, though he
was handsome!
The memory even of that moment made him writhe on his bed years after;
for a mental and bodily wound are alike in this, that after there is
but the scar of either left, bad weather will revive the torture.
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