crowd in quest of the little girl,
the very thought of whom made his heart beat as Blanche had never made
it beat in all her life.

"There they come! That's he! that's Neil, my cousin," Bessie exclaimed,
and forgetting all the proprieties in her excitement, she rose so
quickly that her hat fell from her head and hung down her back, as she
went forward three or four steps and waved her handkerchief.

Neil saw her, as did Blanche and many others, and a frown darkened his
face at this unlooked-for demonstration. Still he was struck with the
wonderful picture she made, with her strikingly beautiful face lit up
with excitement, and her bright, wavy hair gleaming in the sunlight, us
she stood with uncovered head waving to him, the fashionable Neil
McPherson, whom so many knew. His first impulse, naturally, was to lift
his hat in token of recognition, but something in his meaner nature
prompted him to take no notice, until Blanche said, in her most
supercilious tone:

"Who was that brazen-faced girl? Your cousin Bessie?"

"Yes, my cousin Bessie," Neil replied, and turned to make the bow he
should have made before.

But Bessie had disappeared, and was sitting again by her father,
adjusting her hat and hating herself for having been so foolish.

"Neil was angry, I know. I saw it in his face, and I was an idiot," she
thought, just as the stranger, who had watched the proceeding with a
highly amused expression around the corners of his mouth, said to her:

"You know Neil McPherson, then? You called him your cousin."

"Yes," Bessie answered, a little proud of the relationship, "Neil is my
cousin, or rather the cousin of my father, who is Mr. Archibald
McPherson, from Bangor, Wales."

She meant to show her companion how respectable she was, even if her
dress, which she was sure he had inspected critically, was poor and out
of date, and she was not prepared for his sudden start, as he repeated:

"Mr. Archibald McPherson, of Bangor! Then you are the daughter of
that--" he checked himself, and added, "I have met your mother at Monte
Carlo," and he drew back a step or two, as if he feared that something
of the mother's character might have communicated itself to the
daughter. And Bessie saw the movement, and the change of expression on
his face, and her cheeks were scarlet with shame, but she lifted her
clear blue eyes fearlessly to his, and said:

"Yes, mother is a monomaniac on the subject of play. It is a species of
insa