this?"--"_Co an so?_"--in his air.

"Oh, that is my sister Carry, Sir Keith," said Miss White. "I forgot you
had not seen her."

"How do you do?" said he, in a kindly way; and for a second he put his
hand on the light curls as her father might have done. "I suppose you
like having holidays?"

From that moment she became his deadly enemy. To be patted on the head,
as if she were a child, an infant--and that in the presence of the
sister whom she had just been lecturing.

"Yes, thank you," said she, with a splendid dignity, as she proudly
walked off. She went into the small lobby leading to the door. She
called to the little maid-servant. She looked at a certain long bag made
of matting which lay there, some bits of grass sticking out of one end.
"Jane, take this thing down to the cellar at once! The whole house
smells of it."

Meanwhile Miss White had carried her salad dressing in to Marie, and
had gone out again to the veranda where Macleod was seated. He was
charmed with the dreamy stillness and silence of the place, with the
hanging foliage all around, and the colors in the steep gardens, and the
still waters below.

"I don't see how it is," said he, "but you seem to have much more open
houses here than we have. Our houses in the North look cold, and hard,
and bare. We should laugh if we saw a place like this up with us; it
seems to me a sort of a toy place out of a picture--from Switzerland or