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HERE was a heavy rain last night. All through the evergreens the drops still drip, the flowers are burdened with its spray, yet with the light came sunshine and a zephyr wind and a promise of good things to come.

The little reign of weeping—now past and gone—has left a subduing influence that contrasts warmly with the glowing rays great Phœbus is casting broadly on earth and lake and mountain. The water, as though tired of last night's turbulence, is lying exhausted, swaying gently to and fro, and glinting beneath the sun's hot touch.

"Whither are we bound to-day?" asks Jones, at breakfast, with such a blithe belief in our inability to go away anywhere and leave him behind as puts to flight all courageous determinations to shun him.

"To the Upper Lake, I suppose," says Carrie kindly.

"Ah! I shall be glad to see that," says Brooke, toying gracefully with his egg and letting an expectant smile steal over his lean countenance. Truly, as it seems, we are in for it.

Not another word is said, but when we—Carrie, Miss Kingsley, and I—saunter down to the boat it does not surprise any of us to find Brooke and Jones waiting for us.

Past Lamb and Heron Isles we go again, until Ross Castle, with its tower and floating flag (Lord Kenmare, for whose coming the flag has been hoisted, arrived at the castle last night) and ivied bastions and quaint buttresses, comes into view. And then again past "sweet Innisfallen" and Mouse Island to the water beneath Tomies, whose brown plateau lies dark and gleaming in the sunlight. Some sheep are browsing upon the top of the hill; the gable of the cottage shows gray against the dark background; the trees seem full of newer tints.

Still on and on, with James, the boat-man, smiling on our delight at the beauteous Nature round us, to where Stag and Burnt Island stand together close against the shore, with Tomies towering aloft upon their right and overshadowing them. In the clear-cut sedges with their brown heads large lily-leaves lie broad and flat upon the water, with crimson berries floating in and out between them. Upon a dark-gray stone a heron, most solitary of birds, stands dreaming,—a thing as gray as its resting-place.

And so on, through Brickeen Bridge, to the Muckross or Middle Lake.

"There's fogs an' storms on these lakes as ye wouldn't believe," says James, addressing himself, as usual, to Carrie. Twas on'y a fortnight since, ma'am, as I was caught in one o' thim wid a party of the English folk."

The fact that Carrie has sprung from the Emerald Isle is as well known to James, by instinct, as if her pedigree was read to him. It enhances her value and renders her doubly dear in his sight.

"For, fegs, thim English is mighty scarce wid the civil word," says James to me on a later occasion. "Why, they'd think it shame to off'er a poor man the full o' his dhudheen, an' to give him a chance o' convarsin' wid thim would kill thim intirely. 'Tis aisy to know Mrs. Desmond is one o' the right sort."

"Well, did you get safe home?" asks Carrie now, seeing he wants to tell her something.

"I didn't thin, indeed, ma'am. The fog came down as thick as a blanket just as we come to Brickeen Bridge, so I towld thim 'twould be madness to thry an' find our way home, an' I had to git 'em to go ashore here," pointing to the peninsula that leads from Brickeen Bridge to Muckross. Twas many a mile they had to walk till they