nswers Giddy, kissing
her effusively. "Ta-ta, beloved--and mind you adopt your best Society
airs for Lady MacDonald to-morrow. She will swallow any amount, and
may be very useful to us in town. _Comprenez-vous?_"

* * * * *

Eleanor is quite in a flutter the following afternoon. Her room looks
bright with flowers purchased that morning in the town, her Crown Derby
tea-service is set out on a new and dainty cloth, which had been laid
by for an occasion. The curtains are drawn to shut away the dreary
fog, and fire-light mingles with the rosy rays from a tall lamp.
Eleanor is still quite in a tremble lest the oil should smell, as Sarah
frequently fails over the art of wick trimming.

"How does my heliotrope go with this chair?" she asks, settling her
sleeves, and critically contrasting the yellow brocade furniture with
the shade of her gown.

Sarah assures her the effect is most desirable, as she places a pink
iced cake by the tray.

"Don't keep Lady MacDonald waiting on the doorstep; you might be in the
hall ready to answer the bell."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And if the fog gets denser light the gas outside."

Eleanor draws her chair to the fire, and pretends to read a Society
paper, but her thoughts are far from the fashion article.

She is supremely contented with herself and her surroundings. Her hair
has its prettiest wave to-day, she is wearing her smartest toilette,
and a new pair of bronzed beaded shoes. Her only trial in life at this
moment is the propensity shown by her diamond crescent to turn over in
its bed of lace, and reveal the back, with a hairpin for a fastening.
She fixes it in her fringe at night.

A little tremble of excitement rushes over Eleanor; the bell rings.

Sarah flings open the door, and Giddy Mounteagle sails into the room
with Lady MacDonald. Mrs. Roche feels quite small and insignificant
under the stranger's patronising smile.

Lady MacDonald raises her long-handled _lorgnette_ to scrutinise her
surroundings.

Giddy is conscious of the offending photograph. Eleanor draws forward
the largest chair. Lady MacDonald sinks gracefully back among the
cushions, her head poised on one side--she always holds it so. Some
admirers once told her it was like a flower bending on its stem with
the weight of its own beauty.

"Oh! the fog outside," she cries, with an affected little cough, first
cousin to a sigh. "I suppose it rises from the river."

"Yes, an