rather grave.

"Gerty," said the younger sister, as she screwed up the gas, "wouldn't
the name of Lady Macleod look well in a play-bill?"

The elder sister would not answer; but as she turned away there was a
quick flush of color in her face--whether caused by anger or by a sudden
revelation of her own thought it was impossible to say.




CHAPTER XI.

A FLOWER.


The many friends Macleod had made in the South--or rather those of them
who had remained in town till the end of the season--showed an unwonted
interest in this nondescript party of his; and it was at a comparatively
early hour in the evening that the various groups of people began to
show themselves in Miss Rawlinson's garden. That prim old lady, with her
quick, bright ways, and her humorous little speeches, studiously kept
herself in the background. It was Sir Keith Macleod who was the host.
And when he remarked to her that he thought the most beautiful night of
all the beautiful time he had spent in the South had been reserved for
this very party, she replied--looking round the garden just as if she
had been one of his guests--that it was a pretty scene. And it was a
pretty scene. The last fire of the sunset was just touching the topmost
branches of the trees. In the colder shade below, the banks and beds of