The Gowanbrae Ball

"Your honour's pardon,
I'd rather have my wounds to heal again,
Than hear say how I got them."--Coriolanus.

"Yes, I go the week after next."

"So soon? I thought you were to stay for our ball."

"Till this time next year! No, no, I can't quite do that, thank you."

"This very winter."

"Oh, no--no such thing! Why, half the beauty and fashion of the
neighbourhood is not come into winter quarters yet. Besides, the very
essence of a military ball is that it should be a parting--the brightest
and the last. Good morning."

And Meg's head, nothing loth, was turned away from the wide view of
the broad vale of the Avon, with the Avoncester Cathedral towers in the
midst, and the moors rising beyond in purple distance. The two young
lieutenants could only wave their farewells, as Bessie cantered merrily
over the soft smooth turf of the racecourse, in company with Lord Keith,
the Colonel, and Conrade.

"Do you not like dancing?" inquired Lord Keith, when the canter was
over, and they were splashing through a lane with high hedges.

"I'm not so unnatural," returned Bessie, with a merry smile, "but it
would never do to let the Highlanders give one now. Alick has been
telling me that the expense would fall seriously on a good many of
them."

"True," said Colonel Keith, "too many fetes come to be a heavy tax."

"That is more consideration than is common in so young a lad," added
Lord Keith.

"Yes, but dear Alick is so full of consideration," said the sister,
eagerly. "He does not get half the credit for it that he deserves,
because, you know, he is so quiet and reserved, and has that unlucky
ironical way with him that people don't like; especially rattlepates
like those," pointing with her whip in the direction of the two young
officers.