d as the favorite of the public a woman who, you can see,
cannot come near to what you used to do. And I suppose you won't be
jealous of her, and anxious to defeat her on the old ground."

"I can do with that as you suggested about the newspapers: I need not go
to the theatre."

"Very well, Gerty. I hope all will be for the best. But do not be in a
hurry; take time and consider."

She saw clearly enough that this calm acquiescence was all the
congratulation or advice she was likely to get; and she went to the
door.

"Papa," said she, diffidently, "Sir Keith Macleod is coming up to-morrow
morning--to go to church with us."

"Yes?" said he, indifferently.

"He may speak to you before we go."

"Very well. Of course I have nothing to say in the matter. You are
mistress of your own actions."

She went to her own room, and locked herself in, feeling very lonely,
and disheartened, and miserable. There was more to alarm her in her
father's faintly expressed doubts than in all Carry's vehement
opposition and taunts. Why had Macleod left her alone?--if only she
could see him laugh, her courage would be reassured.

Then she bethought her that this was not a fit mood for one who had
promised to be the wife of a Macleod. She went to the mirror and
regarded herself; and almost unconsciously an expression of pride and
resolve appeared about the lines of her mouth. And she would show to
herself that she had still a woman's feelings by going out and doing
some actual work of charity; she would prove to herself that the
constant simulation of noble emotions had not deadened them in her own
nature. She put on her hat and shawl, and went downstairs, and went out
into the free air and the sunlight--without a word to either Carry or
her father. She was trying to imagine herself as having already left the
stage and all its fictitious allurements. She was now Lady Bountiful:
having looked after the simple cares of her household she was now ready
to cast her eyes abroad, and relieve in so far as she might the distress
around her. The first object of charity she encountered was an old
crossing-sweeper. She addressed him in a matter-of-fact way which was
intended to conceal her fluttering self-consciousness. She inquired
whether he had a wife; whether he had any children; whether they were
not rather poor. And having been answered in the affirmative on all
these points, she surprised the old man by giving him five shillings and
tellin