"Moose," murmured Bertie. "Ah! there's Cecil."
Cecil, skating hand-in-hand to the tune of "Paddle your own canoe," was not sufficiently disengaged to remark her mother's companion. His eyes followed her with a keen, comprehensive glance, which Mrs. Rolleston observed complacently.
"Don't you think her much improved?—much prettier?" asked she.
"Skating always suits a well-made girl. That black and scarlet get-up, too, is very becoming, but pretty—hardly."
"She is, however, very much admired," said Mrs. Rolleston, warmly, for a step-mother.
"Ah!" cried Bertie, with a slight accent of bitterness, "reasons enough for that. How well some of these girls skate! Who is that shooting-star?"
The planet in question gyrated towards them, dropped on one knee on the platform for the relief of strained ankles, and, as she addressed Mrs. Rolleston, caught a look of decided admiration on Bertie's face.
A Canadian girl is nothing if not self-possessed; she sustained the gaze with the most perfect calmness.
"Bluebell, this is my brother, Captain Du Meresq. Cecil ought to rest; will you go and tell her to come here?"
"Who is that young beauty whom you addressed in the language of flowers?" asked he.