Ireland."

"We have just come over, and go down to Weatherill to-morrow. Won't you
come down and shoot a pheasant or two before you return to the
Highlands?"

"Well, the fact is," Macleod said, hesitatingly, "my friend and I--by
the way, let me introduce you--Lord Beauregard, Major Stuart--the fact
is, we ought to go back directly after we have settled this business."

"But a day or two won't matter. Now, let me see. Plymley comes to us on
Monday next, I think. We could get up a party for you on the Tuesday;
and if your friend will come with you, we shall be six guns, which I
always think the best number."

The gallant major showed no hesitation whatever. The chance of blazing
away at a whole atmosphereful of pheasants--for so he construed the
invitation--did not often come in his way.

"I am quite sure a day or two won't make any difference," said he,
quickly. "In any case we were not thinking of going till Monday, and
that would only mean an extra day."

"Very well," Macleod said.

"Then you will come down to dinner on the Monday evening. I will see if
there is no alteration in the trains, and drop you a note with full
instructions. Is it a bargain?"

"It is."

"All right. I must be off now. Good-by."

Major Stuart jumped to his feet with great alacrity, and warmly shook
hands with the departing stranger. Then, when the door was shut, he went
through a pantomimic expression of bringing down innumerable pheasants
from every corner of the ceiling--with an occasional aim at the floor,
where an imaginary hare was scurrying by.

"Macleod. Macleod," said he, "you are a trump. You may go on writing
love-letters from now till next Monday afternoon. I suppose we will have
a good dinner, too?"

"Beauregard is said to have the best _chef_ in London; and I don't
suppose they would leave so important a person in Ireland."

"You have my gratitude, Macleod--eternal, sincere, unbounded," the major
said, seriously.

"But it is not I who am asking you to go and massacre a lot of
pheasants," said Macleod; and he spoke rather absently, for he was
thinking of the probable mood in which he would go down to Weatherill.
One of a generous gladness and joy, the outward expression of an eager
and secret happiness to be known by none? Or what if there were no red
rose at all on her bosom when she advanced to meet him with sad eyes?

They went down into Essex next day. Major Stuart was surprised to find
that his companion talk