trained costume of blue satin, with its _fichu_ of white muslin, the
bold coquettish hat and feathers, and the powdered puffs and curls that
descended to her shoulders. She had a gay air with her, too. She bore
her head proudly. The patches on her cheek seemed not half so black as
the blackness of her eyes, so full of a dark mischievous light were
they; and the redness of the lips--a trifle artificial, no doubt--as she
smiled seemed to add to the glittering whiteness of her teeth. The
proud, laughing, gay coquette: no wonder all eyes were for a moment
turned to her, in envy or in admiration.

Macleod, following these two, and finding that his old companion, the
pensive clown in cap and bells, was still at his post of observation at
the door, remained there also for a minute or two, and noticed that
among the first to recognize the two strangers was young Ogilvie, who
with laughing surprise in his face, came forward to shake hands with
them. Then there was some further speech; the band began to play a
gentle and melodious waltz; the middle of the room cleared somewhat; and
presently her Grace of Devonshire was whirled away by the young Highland
officer, her broad-brimmed hat rather overshadowing him, notwithstanding
the pronounced colors of his plaid. Macleod could not help following
this couple with his eyes whithersoever they went. In any part of the
rapidly moving crowd he could always make out that one figure; and once
or twice as they passed him it seemed to him that the brilliant beauty,
with her powdered hair, and her flashing bright eyes, and her merry
lips, regarded him for an instant; and then he could have imagined that
in a by-gone century--

"Sir Keith Macleod, I think?"

The old gentleman with the grave and scholarly cap of black velvet and