go and look up all the et ceteras of riding-
costume—hat, gloves, cravat, and whip.

She soon reappeared, laden with music.
"Is your piano in good tune, Aunt
Daisy?"

"I hardly know, dear."

"I conclude Mr. Stewart is a Scotchman,
Aunt Daisy, so I've been hunting out all
my Scotch songs—preparing to fascinate
him by singing them. Is he fond of
music, Aunt Daisy? Does he ever come
here of an evening? Does he like vocal
or instrumental music best? What style
of music, classical or romantic? Do you
play and sing, Aunt Daisy?"

"Which of your questions shall I answer
first?"

"You think me a sad rattle, don't you,
Aunt Daisy? But you'll soon get to like
my rattle. I'm always the life and light
of any house I'm in. At home you see,
Aunt Daisy, I was too bright a light. I
threw Jean and Julia, poor old dears, so
grievously into the shade."

Trying the piano, she pronounced it very
tolerable, but got up from it almost
immediately.

"I think I shall go out and make a
sketch of the cottage. I'm very fond of
sketching, and, I think I may say, I'm
rather clever at it. Perhaps, after lunch,
you'll take me for a good long walk. I
suppose it is no use hoping that Mr. Stewart
will take me for a ride this first day, is it,
Aunt Daisy?"

"Of course it is just possible, but not
probable. Most likely the horse he intends
for your riding will require some exercising
first."

"I can ride anything, Aunt Daisy, so I
hope he won't reduce the animal to an
un-interesting state of quietness."

Myrrha arranged herself in a something
she called a hat, and in a coquettish jacket,
and then went out "to sketch." So Daisy,
who found that continual repetition of
"Aunt Daisy" somewhat trying to her
unaccustomed nerves, had quiet
breathing-time.

After lunch, which was in reality dinner,
Daisy took her visitor for a walk. She
found that " a walk " with Myrrha meant
no mere stroll of a mile or so, but two or
three hours of good, brisk, uninterrupted
walking—"over the hills and far away."
Not exactly, however, on Myrrha's part,
uninterrupted, as she broke the monotony
of walking by running races with Daisy's
large dog. Daisy had no idea she could have
borne such a walk. The truth was she was
amused, distracted from the consciousness
of the weight and burden of her own
existence. The contact with Myrrha's frivolity,
exuberant youth, and gay superficiality,
did her good. When they came home they
took a cup of tea, then Daisy went to lie
down in her own room, and Myrrha went
"to dress."

"I wonder if I shall be able to get fond
of her," Daisy thought. "She is so pretty,
but—the pretty eyes are so untrustworthy.
I wonder how Kenneth will like her. I
should think he won't be able to help
admiring her! The miniature he spoke of so
warmly couldn't represent a lovelier face
than Myrrha's." And here Daisy sighed.

"I like your way of living uncommonly,
Aunt Daisy," was Myrrha's comment on
the delicately-appointed tea-table to which
they sat down about seven o'clock. "I
suppose it wouldn't suit a man, they always
seem bent on late dinners," she went on.
"I suppose Mr. Stewart dines late. I
forget if you said he did come sometimes
in the evening? I am longing to see him
again. Perhaps he may look in this evening,
just to tell me when I may expect a
ride?"

"It is quite possible he may."

But he did not. Myrrha's spirits drooped:
she seemed to find the evening dull, and
she went to bed very early, regretting that
she had been to the trouble of putting on
one of her prettiest dresses.

The next day was wet, and Myrrha felt
it hang on hand somewhat heavily: she
spread some of her pretty "costumes " out
in her room for the admiration of Daisy,
of Mrs. Moss, and of Jane, but this was not
very exciting. The day dragged.

When Mr. Stewart, in spite of the rain,
came to the cottage that evening, Myrrha's
reception of him showed him that he was a
most welcome apparition.

"Is this intended in an offensive sense?"
he asked, when Myrrha crossed the room
to him, carrying him a cup of tea. "I ask,
because this is the sort of attention paid by
charming young ladies to elderly bachelor
uncles."

"You enlighten me, Mr. Stewart. I
didn't know, though I may have fancied,
I had that happiness to hope for—of having
you for my uncle. When is it to be?"

"You are a saucy-tongued young lady!
And your sauciness was not apt. If I had
meant any such allusion, should I have used
the word ' offensive '?"

He turned to the open, music-littered
piano.