“I suppose,” said she, with a certain demure smile, “you have no wild deeds done there now?”

“Oh, we have become quite peaceable folks now,” said he, laughing.  “Our spirit is quite broken.  The wild boars are all away from the islands now, even from Muick; we have only the sheep.  And the Mackenzies, and the Macleans, and the Macleods—­they are all sheep now.”

Was it not quite obvious?  How could any one associate with this bright-faced young man the fierce traditions of hate and malice and revenge, that makes the seas and islands of the north still more terrible in their loneliness?  Those were the days of strong wills and strong passions, and of an easy disregard of individual life when the gratification of some set desire was near.  What had this Macleod to do with such scorching fires of hate and of love?  He was playing with a silver fork and half a dozen strawberries:  Miss White’s surmise was perfectly natural and correct.

The ladies went upstairs, and the men, after the claret had gone round, followed them.  And now it seemed to this rude Highlander that he was only going from wonder to wonder.  Half-way up the narrow staircase was a large recess dimly lit by the sunlight falling through stained glass, and there was a small fountain playing in the middle of this grotto and all around was a wilderness of ferns dripping with the spray, while at the entrance two stone figures held up magical globes on which the springing and falling water was reflected.  Then from this partial gloom he emerged into the drawing-room—­a dream of rose-pink and gold, with the air sweetened around him by the masses of roses and tall lilies about.  His eyes were rather bewildered at first; the figures of the women seemed dark against the white lace of the windows.  But as he went forward to his hostess, he could make out still further wonders of color; for in the balconies outside, in the full glare of the sun, were geraniums, and lobelias, and golden calceolarias, and red snapdragon, their bright hues faintly tempered by the thin curtains through which they were seen.  He could not help expressing his admiration of these things that were so new to him, for it seemed to him that he had come into a land of perpetual summer and sunshine and glowing flowers.  Then the luxuriant greenness of the foliage on the other side of Exhibition Road—­for Mrs. Ross’s house faced westward—­was, as he said, singularly beautiful to one accustomed to the windy skies of the western isles.

“But you have not seen our elm—­our own elm,” said Mrs. Ross, who was arranging some azaleas that had just been sent her.  “We are very proud of our elm.  Gertrude, will you take Sir Keith to see our noble elm?”

He had almost forgotten who Gertrude was; but the next second he recognized the low and almost timid voice that said.

“Will you come this way, then Sir Keith?”