e were there that year, with a large party," says Marcia. "I do not
remember seeing you on the stand."

"We were not on it. We drove over, John and I and Letty, in the little
trap, a Norwegian, and dreadfully shaky it was, but we did not care,
and we sat in it all day, and saw everything very well. Then a friend
of John's, a man in the Sixty-second, came up, and asked to be
introduced to me, and afterward others came, and persuaded us to have
luncheon with them in their marquee. It was there," nodding at Philip,
"I got the champagne. We had great fun, I remember, and altogether it
was quite the pleasantest day I ever spent in my life."

As she speaks, she dimples, and blushes, and beams all over her pretty
face as she recalls that day's past glories.

"The Sixty-second?" says Marcia. "I recollect. A very second-rate
regiment I thought it. There was a Captain Milburd in it, I remember."

"That was John's friend," says Molly, promptly; "he was so kind to me
that day. Did you like him?"

"Like him! A man all broad plaid and red tie. No, I certainly did not
like him."

"His tie!" says Molly, laughing gayly at the vision she has conjured
up,--"it certainly _was_ red. As red as that rose," pointing to a
blood-colored flower in the centre of a huge china bowl of priceless
cost, that ornaments the middle of the table, and round which, being
opposite to him, she has to peer to catch a glimpse of Philip. "It was
the reddest thing I ever saw, except his complexion. But I forgave him,
he was so good-natured."

"Does good-nature make up for everything?" asks Philip, dodging the
bowl in his turn to meet her eyes.

"For most things. Grandpapa," pointing to a family portrait over the
chimney-piece that has attracted her attention ever since her entrance,
"whose is that picture?"

"Your grandmother's. It is like you, but," says the old man with his
usual gracefulness, "it is ten times handsomer."

"_Very_ like you," thinks the young man, gazing with ever
increasing admiration at the exquisite tints and shades and changes in
the living face before him, "only you are ten thousand times more
beautiful!"

Slowly, and with much unnecessary delay, the dinner drags to an end,
only to be followed by a still slower hour in the drawing-room.

Mr. Amherst challenges Philip to a game of chess, that most wearisome
of games to the on-looker, and so arranges himself that his antagonist
cannot, without risking his neck, bestow so much as