“She is already anxious to make your acquaintance mother,” said he to the proud old dame who sat there ominously silent.  “And she could think of no other message to send you than this—­it belonged to her mother.”

He opened the little package—­of old lace, or something of that kind—­and handed it to his mother; and at the same time, his impetuosity carrying him on, he said that perhaps, the mother would write now and propose the visit in the summer.

At this Lady Macleod’s surprise overcame her reserve.

“You must be mad, Keith!  To write in the middle of winter and send an invitation for the summer!  And really the whole thing is so extraordinary—­a present coming to me from an absolute stranger—–­ and that stranger an actress who is quite unknown to any one I know—­”

“Mother, mother,” he cried, “don’t say any more.  She has promised to be my wife.”

Lady Macleod stared at him as if to see whether he had really gone mad, and rose and pushed back her chair.

“Keith,” she said, slowly and with a cold dignity, “when you choose a wife, I hope I will be the first to welcome her, and I shall be proud to see you with a wife worthy of the name that you bear; but in the meantime I do not think that such a subject should be made the occasion of a foolish jest.”

And with that she left the apartment, and Keith Macleod turned in a bewildered sort of fashion to his cousin.  Janet Macleod had risen too; she was regarding him with anxious and troubled and tender eyes.

“Janet,” said he, “it is no jest at all!”

“I know that,” said she, in a low voice, and her face was somewhat pale.  “I have known that.  I knew it before you went away to England this last time.”

And suddenly she went over to him and bravely held out her hand; and there were quick tears in the beautiful gray eyes.

“Keith,” said she, “there is no one will be more proud to see you happy than I; and I will do what I can for you now, if you will let me, for I see your whole heart is set on it; and how can I doubt that you have chosen a good wife?”

“Oh Janet, if you could only see her and know her!”

She turned aside for a moment—­only for a moment.  When he next saw her face she was quite gay.

“You must know, Keith,” said she, with a smile shining through the tears of the friendly eyes, “that women-folk are very jealous; and all of a sudden you come to auntie and me, and tell us that a stranger has taken away your heart from us and from Dare; and you must expect us to be angry and resentful just a little bit at first.”

“I never could expect that from you, Janet,” said he.  “I knew that was impossible from you.”

“As for auntie, then,” she said, warmly, “is it not natural that she should be surprised and perhaps offended—­”

“But she says she does not believe it—­that I am making a joke of it—­”

“That is only her way of protesting, you know,” said the wise cousin.  “And you must expect her to be angry and obdurate, because women have their prejudices, you know, Keith; and this young lady—­well, it is a pity she is not known to some one auntie knows.”