frowning walls of Edinburgh Castle, and twining a fairy wreath round the
unfinished columns of the national monument upon the Calton Hill.
The broad stretch of the Prince's Street Gardens, which occupy the
valley between the old town and the new, looked green and spring-like,
and their fountains sparkled merrily in the sunshine. Their wide
expanse, well-trimmed and bepathed, formed a strange contrast to the
rugged piles of grim old houses which bounded them upon the other side
and the massive grandeur of the great hill beyond, which lies like a
crouching lion keeping watch and ward, day and night, over the ancient
capital of the Scottish kings. Travellers who have searched the whole
world round have found no fairer view.

So thought three of the genus who were ensconced that forenoon in the
bow windows of the _Royal Hotel_ and gazed across the bright green
valley at the dull historical background beyond. One we already know, a
stoutish gentleman, ruddy-faced and black-eyed, with check trousers,
light waistcoat and heavy chain, legs widely parted, his hands in his
pockets, and on his face that expression of irreverent and critical
approval with which the travelled Briton usually regards the works of
nature. By his side was a young lady in a tight-fitting travelling
dress, with trim leather belt and snow-white collar and cuffs.
There was no criticism in her sweet face, now flushed with excitement--
nothing but unqualified wonder and admiration at the beautiful scene
before her. An elderly placid-faced woman sat in a basket chair in the
recess, and looked up with quiet loving eyes at the swift play of
emotions which swept over the girl's eager features.

"Oh, Uncle George," she cried, "it is really too heavenly. I cannot
realize that we are free. I can't help fearing that it is all a dream,
and that I shall wake up to find myself pouring out Ezra Girdlestone's