m not young enough to
know) brought the color to Mrs. Ormonde's cheek and a frown to her fair
brow. "The young lady is, on the whole, original," he continued. "She
does not care to be presented."

"Do you believe her? I don't. She only said so from love of
contradicting."

"Yes, I believe her; she does not care about it now; but she will
probably get the court fever after a plunge into London life. Who is
singing?--that is something different from the penny whistling Lady
Alice gives us."

"Why it must be Katherine! It is the first time she has sung since she
came. She is always afraid of breaking down, she says. I don't believe
she has sung since the death of her mother." De Burgh's only reply was
to walk into the next room. Leaving Mrs. Ormonde in a state of
irritation against him, Katherine, and the world in general.

Katherine was singing a gay Neapolitan air. She had a rich, sympathetic
voice, and sang with arch expression.

Errington stood beside her, and Lady Alice, the rector's wife and one or
two other guests, were grouped round.

"Thank you. That is thoroughly Italian. You must have studied a good
deal," said Errington, who rather liked music, and was accustomed to the
best.

"Very nice indeed," added Lady Alice. "Very nice" was her highest
praise. "I should like to learn the song."

"I do not think it would suit you," observed Errington.

"Why, Katherine, I had no notion you could 'tune up' in this way," cried
Colonel Ormonde. "Give us another, like a good girl; something
English--'Robin Adair.' There was a fellow in 'ours' used to sing it
capitally."

"I cannot sing it, Colonel Ormonde. I am very sorry."

"Oh, Katherine! I have heard you sing it a hundred times," cried Mrs.
Ormonde, joining them. "Why, it was a great favorite with poor dear Mrs.
Liddell."

"I cannot sing it, Ada," repeated Katherine, quick and low. As she spoke
she caught Errington's eyes.

"No one ought to dictate to a songstress," he said, very decidedly.
"Give us anything you like, so long as you sing."

Kate bent her head, feeling that he understood her, and her hands
wandered over the keys for a minute; then, with a glance at Colonel
Ormonde, she began "Jock o' Hazeldean."

Katherine was not the kind of girl to nurse her grief, to dwell upon it
with morbid insistence: but she remembered, warmly, lovingly. At times
gusts of passionate regret swept over her and shook her self-control,
and she dared not attempt her mot