ook her seat at the sumptuous table, whereon gold and silver shone,
whereon everything recherche and magnificent was displayed. But she
had with her a companion she was never again to lose, a haunting fear,
a skeleton that was never more to quit her side, a miserable
consciousness of folly that was bringing sore wretchedness upon her.
Never again was she to feel free from fear and care.

"Beatrice," said Lady Earle when dinner was over, "you will never learn
prudence."

She started, and the beautiful bloom just beginning to return, vanished
again.

"Do not look alarmed, my dear," continued Lady Helena; "I am not angry.
I fear you were out too long today. Lord Airlie must take more care of
you; the sun was very hot, and you look quite ill. I never saw you
look as you do tonight."

"We had very little sun," replied Beatrice, with a laugh as she tried
to make a gay one; "we rode under the shade in the park. I am tired,
but not with my ride."

It was a pleasant evening, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in
the drawing room, the sunbeams still lingered on flower and tree. The
long windows were all open, and the soft summer wind that came in was
laden with the sweet breath of the flowers.

Lord Airlie asked Beatrice to sing. It was a relief to her; she could
not have talked; all the love and sorrow, all the fear and despair that
tortured her, could find vent in music. So she sat in the evening
gloaming, and Lord Airlie, listening to the superb voice, wondered at
the pathos and sadness that seemed to ring in every note.

"What weird music, Beatrice!" he said, at length. "You are singing of
love, but the love is all sorrow. Your songs are generally so bright
and happy. What has come over you?"

"Nothing," was the reply, but he, bending over her, saw the dark eyes
were dim with tears.

"There," cried Lord Airlie, "you see I am right. You have positively
sung yourself to tears."

He drew her from the piano, and led her to the large bay window where
the roses peeped in. He held her face up to the mellow evening light,
and looked gravely into her beautiful eyes.

"Tell me," he said, simply, "what has saddened you, Beatrice you have
no secrets from me. What were you thinking of just now when you sang
that dreamy 'Lebenwold?' Every note was like a long sigh."

"Shall you laugh if I tell you?" she asked.

"No," he replied; "I can not promise to sigh, but I will not smile."

"I was thinking what I