We turned off into a winding path while she was speaking, and approached a pretty summerhouse, built of wood, in the form of a miniature Swiss chalet. The one room of the summerhouse, as we ascended the steps of the door, was occupied by a young lady. She was standing near a rustic table, looking out at the inland view of moor and hill presented by a gap in the trees, and absently turning over the leaves of a little sketchbook that lay at her side. This was Miss Fairlie.

How can I describe her? How can I separate her from my own sensations, and from all that has happened in the later time? How can I see her again as she looked when my eyes first rested on her⁠—as she should look, now, to the eyes that are about to see her in these pages?