be his.

Chapter XXVIII

Lord Airlie muttered something that was not a benediction when, on the
morning following, Gaspar Laurence made his appearance at Earlescourt.

"We can not receive visitors this morning," said Beatrice, half
impatiently. "Mr. Laurence must have forgotten the ball tonight."

But Mr. Laurence had forgotten nothing of the kind. It was a delicious
morning, the sun shining brightly and clearly, the westerly breeze
blowing fresh and cool. He had thought it likely that the young ladies
would spend the morning out-of-doors, and begged permission to join
them.

Lady Earle was pleased with the idea. Lord Airlie mentioned something
about fatigue, but he was overruled.

"Stroll in the grounds," said Lady Helena; "go down by the lake; I will
join you there afterward. A few hours in the fresh air will be the
best preparation for the ball."

They went together. Gaspar's preference soon became apparent he would
not leave Beatrice, and Lord Airlie devotedly wished him at the
antipodes.

They sat down under the shade of a tall lady-birch, the deep, sunlit
lake shining through the trees. Then Gaspar, taking a little book in
his hands, asked:

"Have you read 'Undine,' Miss Earle--Fouque's 'Undine?'"

"No," she replied; "I am half ashamed to say so."

"It is the sweetest, saddest story ever written," he continued. "This
is just the morning for it. May I read it to you?"

There was a general and pleased murmur of assent. Lord Airlie muttered
to himself that he knew the fellow would air his German sentiment--at
their expense.

Still it was very pleasant. There was a gentle ripple on the deep
lake, the water washed among the tall reeds, and splashed with a faint,
musical murmur on the stones; the thick leafy branches rustled in the
wind; the birds sang in the trees.

Gaspar Laurence read well; his voice was clear and distinct; not a word
of the beautiful story was lost.

Beatrice listened like one in a dream. Her proud, bright face
softened, her magnificent eyes grew tender and half sad. Gaspar read
on--of the fair and lovely maiden, of the handsome young knight and his
love, of the water sprite, grim old Kuhlehorn, and the cottage where
Undine dwelt, of the knight's marriage, and then of proud, beautiful
Bertha.

The rippling of the lake and the singing of the birds seemed like an
accompaniment to the words, so full of pathos. Then Gaspar came to
Bertha's love for the knight--thei