Putting some constraint upon themselves, we are sorry to say, Lady Dunkeld and her daughter on the following afternoon drove over to Birkwoodbrae, and sent in their cards to Mary and Ellinor Wellwood, who were busy in their little drawing-room with some piles of freshly-cut flowers; and though both were startled--or certainly surprised--by this unusual visit, nothing of that emotion was perceptible in their manner; yet the arrival of the London carriage, with its showy hammercloth, with the Dunkeld arms on the panels, a row of plated coronets round the top, the elaborate 'snobbery,' if we may call it so, of rank--Scottish rank, too often without patriotism--was there--excited something akin to terror among the old servants; and the way in which one of the tall 'matched footmen' pulled the door bell, and the other banged down the carriage steps, went quite 'upon the nerves' of old Elspat Gordon, and the visitors sailed in, displaying those perfect toilettes which were suited to the Row, and which London alone can produce. The beauty of the day, of the weather generally, more than all the beauty of Birkwoodbrae and its garden, 'which seemed quite a love of a place, with all its roses and flowers,' were all discoursed on rapidly and fluently by Lady Dunkeld and Blanche Galloway, while their observant eyes took in every detail of the sisters, their appearance, dress, and surroundings, with all of which they felt secretly bound to admit that no solid fault could be found, though the carpets, hangings, and so forth had certainly seen better times. 'We are to have a garden-party in a few days, Miss Wellwood,' said Lady Dunkeld, 'and hope to have the pleasure of seeing you and Miss Ellinor. Lest you might be out, I have brought your cards; but, being a country gathering, it will be, I fear, rather a tame affair,' she added, smiling, as she laid the embossed and scented missives on the table. Mary's long lashes quivered as she glanced at Ellinor. Both bowed an assent, and murmured thanks, adding that they led very quiet lives now, and seldom went much abroad. 'What are you making with all these beautiful flowers?' asked Blanche Galloway; 'two funeral chaplets apparently.' 'They are so--green ivy leaves, white roses, and lily of the valley,' replied Mary. 'For what purpose?' 'To lay on the graves of papa and mamma. To-morrow is the anniversary of her death--she died in summer, papa in winter,' she added, with the slightest perceptible break in her voice. 'Oh, indeed; how good of you!' murmured Lady Dunkeld. 'How pretty!' cooed her daughter, one of those young ladies so carefully trained as to think it 'awfully bad form' to betray any emotion or feeling that was in any way natural. 'Sir Redmond Sleath was so enchanted with your drawings, Miss Ellinor,' said Lady Dunkeld, to change the subject, as woful ones were eminently distasteful to her. 'He is never weary of singing their praises.'