the topsail over the apple-trees.

'Is that the yacht which has been lying at Knollsea for the last few
days?' she inquired of the master of the Speedwell, as soon as she had an
opportunity.

The master warmed beneath his copper-coloured rind. 'O no, miss; that
one you saw was a cutter--a smaller boat altogether,' he replied. 'Built
on the sliding-keel principle, you understand, miss--and red below her
water-line, if you noticed. This is Lord Mountclere's yacht--the Fawn.
You might have seen her re'ching in round Old-Harry Rock this morning
afore we started.'

'Lord Mountclere's?'

'Yes--a nobleman of this neighbourhood. But he don't do so much at
yachting as he used to in his younger days. I believe he's aboard this
morning, however.'

Ethelberta now became more absorbed than ever in their ocean comrade, and
watched its motions continually. The schooner was considerably in
advance of them by this time, and seemed to be getting by degrees out of
their course. She wondered if Lord Mountclere could be really going to
Cherbourg: if so, why had he said nothing about the trip to her when she
spoke of her own approaching voyage thither? The yacht changed its
character in her eyes; losing the indefinite interest of the unknown, it
acquired the charm of a riddle on motives, of which the alternatives
were, had Lord Mountclere's journey anything to do with her own, or had
it not? Common probability pointed to the latter supposition; but the
time of starting, the course of the yacht, and recollections of Lord