-star paled. The breath of the new morrow stole up out of the rosy
grey. The wings of the morning stirred and trembled; and in the darkness
and chill and mysterious awakening eyes looked into other eyes, hand
sought hand, and cheeks touched each other in mute caress.

Chapter XXVII. Three magpies and a marriage.

'Sun, gallop down the westlin skies,
Gang soon to bed, an' quickly rise;
O lash your steeds, post time away,
And haste about our bridal day!'

The Gentle Shepherd.

Every noon, during this last week, as we have wended our way up the
loaning to the Pettybaw inn for our luncheon, we have passed three
magpies sitting together on the topmost rail of the fence. I am not
prepared to state that they were always the same magpies; I only know
there were always three of them. We have just discovered what they were
about, and great is the excitement in our little circle. I am to be
married to-morrow, and married in Pettybaw, and Miss Grieve says that
in Scotland the number of magpies one sees is of infinite significance:
that one means sorrow; two, mirth; three, a marriage; four, a birth, and
we now recall as corroborative detail that we saw one magpie, our first,
on the afternoon of her arrival.

Mr. Beresford has been cabled for, and must return to America at once on
important business. He persuaded me that the Atlantic is an ower large
body of water to roll between two lovers, and I agreed with all my
heart.

A wedding was arranged, mostly by telegraph, in six hours. The Reverend
Ronald and the Friar are to perform the ceremony; a dear old painter
friend of mine, a London R.A., will come to give me away; Francesca
will be my maid of honour; Elizabeth Ardmore and Jean Dalziel, my
bridemaidens; Robin Anstruther, the best man; while Jamie and Ralph will
be kilted pages-in-waiting, and Lady Ardmore will give the breakfast at
the Castle.

Never was there such generosity, such hospitality, such wealth of
friendship! True, I have no wedding finery; but as I am perforce a
Scottish bride, I can be married in the white gown with the silver
thistles in which I went to Holyrood.

Mr. Anstruther took a night train to and from London to choose the
bouquets and bridal souvenirs. Lady Baird has sent the veil, and a
wonderful diamond thistle to pin it on,--a jewel fit for a princess!
With the dear Dominie's note promising to be an usher came an antique
silver casket filled with white heather. And a