so giving his guest clearly to understand that Miss
Gertrude White was not as other women but rather as one set apart for
the high and inexorable sacrifice demanded by art. At the end of his
lecture he abruptly asked Macleod if he had followed him. Yes, he had
followed him, but in rather a bewildered way. Or had he some confused
sense of self-reproach, in that he had distracted the contemplation of
this pale and beautiful artist, and sent her downstairs to look after
cutlets?

"It seems a little hard, sir," said Macleod to the old man, "that an
artist is not to have any life of his or her own at all; that he or she
should become merely a--a--a sort of ten-minutes' emotionalist."

It was not a bad phrase for a rude Highlander to have invented on the
spur of the moment. But the fact was that some little personal feeling
stung him into the speech. He was prepared to resent this tyranny of art.
And if he now were to see some beautiful pale slave bound in these iron
chains, and being exhibited for the amusement of an idle world, what
would the fierce blood of the Macleods say to that debasement? He began
to dislike this old man, with his cruel theories and his oracular
speech. But he forbore to have further or any argument with him; for he
remembered what the Highlanders call "the advice of the bell of
Scoon"--"_The thing that concerns you not meddle not with._"

CHAPTER IX.

THE PRINCESS RIGHINN.

The people who lived in this land of summer, and sunshine, and
flowers--had they no cares at all? He went out into the garden with
these two girls; and they were like two young fawns in their careless
play. Miss Carry, indeed, seemed bent on tantalizing him by the manner
in which she petted and teased and caressed her sister--scolding her,
quarrelling with her, and kissing her all at once. The grave, gentle,
forbearing manner in which the elder sister bore all this was beautiful
to see. And then her sudden concern and pity when the wild Miss Carry
had succeeded in scratching her finger with the thorn of a rose-bush! It
was the tiniest of scratches: and all the blood that appeared was about
the size of a pin-head. But Miss White must needs tear up her dainty
little pocket-handkerchief, and bind that grievous wound, and condole
with the poor victim as though she were suffering untold agonies. It was
a pretty sort of idleness. It seemed to harmonize with this still,
beautiful summer day, and the soft green foliage around