“Oh, very well,” said Miss Rawlinson, with a smile; but she nodded her head ominously.  If that old man was not actually living on his daughter’s earnings, he had at least strangled his mother, or robbed the Bank of England, or done something or other.  Miss Rawlinson was obviously not well disposed either to Mr. White or to his daughter.

At this very moment both these persons made their appearance, and certainly, as this slender and graceful figure, clad in a pale summer costume, came across the lawn, and as a smile of recognition lit up the intelligent fine face, these critics sitting there must have acknowledged that Gertrude White was a singularly pretty woman.  And then the fascination of that low-toned voice!  She began to explain to Macleod why they were so late:  some trifling accident had happened to Carry.  But as these simple, pathetic tones told him the story, his heart was filled with a great gentleness and pity towards that poor victim of misfortune.  He was struck with remorse because he had sometimes thought harshly of the poor child on account of a mere occasional bit of pertness.  His first message from the Highlands would be to her.

    “O, Willie brew’d a peck o’maut,”

the band played merrily, as the gay company took their seats at the long banquet-table, Macleod leading in the prim old dame who had placed her house at his disposal.  There was a blaze of light and color in this spacious marquee.  Bands of scarlet took the place of oaken rafters; there were huge blocks of ice on the table, each set in a miniature lake that was filled with white water-lilies; there were masses of flowers and fruit from one end to the other; and by the side of each menu lay a tiny nosegay, in the centre of which was a sprig of bell-heather.  This last was a notion of Macleod’s amiable hostess; she had made up those miniature bouquets herself.  But she had been forestalled in the pretty compliment.  Macleod had not seen much of Miss Gertrude White in the cold twilight outside.  Now, in this blaze of yellow light, he turned his eyes to her, as she sat there demurely flirting with an old admiral of ninety-two, who was one of Macleod’s special friends.  And what was that flower she wore in her bosom—­the sole piece of color in the costume of white?  That was no sprig of blood-red bell-heather, but a bit of real heather—­of the common ling; and it was set amidst a few leaves of juniper.  Now, the juniper is the badge of the Clan Macleod.  She wore it next her heart.

There was laughter, and wine, and merry talking.

    “Last May a braw wooer,”

the band played now; but they scarcely listened.

“Where is your piper, Sir Keith?” said Lady Beauregard.

“At this moment,” said he, “I should not wonder if he was down at the shore, waiting for me.”

“You are going away quite soon, then?”

“To-morrow.  But I don’t wish to speak of it.  I should like to-night to last forever.”