"Shamrock in Scotland!" I seem to hear some captious critic exclaim. I
do not attribute Scottish birth to the particular sprig of shamrock
which is to figure in these pages, dear reader. Like all true
shamrock, it was grown in the Emerald Isle. Nevertheless, it was by
its means that the subject of this story migrated to Ardmuirland; hence
it is responsible for my narrative.

* * * * * *

It was no fault on Bernard Murray's part that all his acquaintances
should without exception imagine that he was of Scottish race. For
every one who knew him well--and they numbered not a few--dubbed him "a
canny Scot." He had not started the fiction, even if he had done
nothing toward contradicting it. For what did it matter to any one
else that his nationality should be so widely misinterpreted? He did
not care a straw. Indeed, it is possible that in his secret heart he
was rather pleased that the illusion had grown up. For it might prove
awkward to be known as Irish; Ireland, among the set in which he moved,
was looked upon as so impossibly retrograde! So when he was hailed as
"a canny Scot" Bernard merely smiled pleasantly and held his peace.

No doubt Violet Rossall thought that smile well worth awakening. It
was so sunny--lighting up to classical beauty Bernard's usually grave
yet always handsome features. The rarity of his smile, too, rendered
it all the more precious. His habitual quiet thoughtfulness of
expression helped to settle so definitely his supposed origin; yet had
his admirers been better learned in physiognomy they could never have
guessed so wide of the mark. The clear, pale skin, the black hair and
dark blue eyes so palpably proclaimed him Irish! Moreover, it was to
his native traits that he really owed his wide popularity. The quiet