The day of the Gathering broke gray and still, and the Baron, who was no weather prophet, declared gloomily-- "It vill rain.

Donnerwetter!" A couple of hours later the sun was out, and the distant hills shimmering in the heat haze.
"Himmel! Ve are alvays lucky, Bonker!" he cried, and with gleeful energy brandished his dumb-bells in final preparation for his muscular exploits.
"We certainly have escaped hanging so far," said the Count, as he drew on the trews which became his well-turned leg so happily.
His arrangements were admirable and complete, and by twelve o'clock the castle lawn looked as barbarically gay as the colored supplement to an illustrated paper.

Pipes were skirling, skirts fluttering, flags flapping; and as invitations had been issued to various magnates in the district, whether acquainted with the present peer or not, there were to be seen quite a number of dignified personages in divers shades of tartan, and parasols of all the hues in the rainbow.

The Baron was in his element.

He judged the bagpipe competition himself, and held one end of the tape that measured the jumps, besides delighting the whole assembled company by his affability and good spirits.
"Your performance comes next, I see," said Eleanor Maddison, throwing him her brightest smile.