“I wonder what you would think of the queen,” the stranger said; but before Bessie could reply, there was a sudden murmur among the crowd, and a buzz of expectancy, and then the princess appeared in view, riding slowly, and bowing graciously to the right and to the left.

Instantly there was a rush to the front, and Bessie half rose to go, too; but remembering what Neil had said about not making herself an idiot, as the Americans and country people did, she resumed her seat, and the country people and the Americans stood in her way and all she saw of the princess was her sloping shoulders and long, slender neck, with the lace scarf tied high about it.  It was too bad, and Bessie could scarcely keep back her tears of disappointment, and was wishing she had disregarded Neil’s orders and been an idiot, when a handsome open carriage came in sight, drawn by two splendid bays, and in it sat Blanche Trevellian, with her red parasol over her head, and beside her Neil McPherson, eagerly scanning the crowd in quest of the little girl, the very thought of whom made his heart beat as Blanche had never made it beat in all her life.

“There they come!  That’s he! that’s Neil, my cousin,” Bessie exclaimed, and forgetting all the proprieties in her excitement, she rose so quickly that her hat fell from her head and hung down her back, as she went forward three or four steps and waved her handkerchief.

Neil saw her, as did Blanche and many others, and a frown darkened his face at this unlooked-for demonstration.  Still he was struck with the wonderful picture she made, with her strikingly beautiful face lit up with excitement, and her bright, wavy hair gleaming in the sunlight, us she stood with uncovered head waving to him, the fashionable Neil McPherson, whom so many knew.  His first impulse, naturally, was to lift his hat in token of recognition, but something in his meaner nature prompted him to take no notice, until Blanche said, in her most supercilious tone: 

“Who was that brazen-faced girl?  Your cousin Bessie?”

“Yes, my cousin Bessie,” Neil replied, and turned to make the bow he should have made before.

But Bessie had disappeared, and was sitting again by her father, adjusting her hat and hating herself for having been so foolish.

“Neil was angry, I know.  I saw it in his face, and I was an idiot,” she thought, just as the stranger, who had watched the proceeding with a highly amused expression around the corners of his mouth, said to her: 

“You know Neil McPherson, then?  You called him your cousin.”

“Yes,” Bessie answered, a little proud of the relationship, “Neil is my cousin, or rather the cousin of my father, who is Mr. Archibald McPherson, from Bangor, Wales.”

She meant to show her companion how respectable she was, even if her dress, which she was sure he had inspected critically, was poor and out of date, and she was not prepared for his sudden start, as he repeated: