sky, at Dinah's suggestion Elizabeth went into the
drawing-room, where two pink-shaded lamps were already lighted, and
seated herself at the piano.

"There is no occasion for us to go in," observed Dinah, who had noticed
Malcolm's evident enjoyment of his cigarette; "we shall hear her
perfectly out here, and Mr. Carlyon will turn over for her."

Such is human nature, for one instant Malcolm felt strongly impelled to
throw away his cigarette and oust Mr. Carlyon from his snug corner, if
only to teach him his place; but indolence prevailed: his cigarette was
too delicious, the air was so refreshing and balmy, and the pale globes
of the evening primroses and the milky whiteness of the nicotianas
gleamed so entrancingly in the soft dusk, that he felt himself
unwilling to move. Even the curious notes of the night-jar seeking its
prey in the dim light had a strange fascination for him, and he spoke
of it more than once to Dinah. "It is like the humming of a
spinning-wheel," he remarked; "it is very weird and uncanny."

"So people always say," she returned. "It is the goat-sucker, you know;
they are very fond of feeding on that sort of beetle called the
gnat-chafer; in fact, it is their favourite food. It has another name,
the fern-owl."

"So I have heard;" and then, as a rich strong voice broke suddenly on
his startled ears, he leant back in his hammock chair and composed
himself to listen.

It was a wonderful voice, so sweet and true and full of expression;
there was such tenderness and depth in it, that it seemed in some
mysterious way to touch the very recesses of the heart, and to play on
the whole gamut of human feeling. Malcolm found himself thinking of his
lonely childhood, and of his father, then he recalled his youthful
aspirations and his old ideals. "The thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts," he said to himself, "and the wind's will is a boy's will;"
and then, as the last lingering notes died away, he flung his cigarette
aside and rose abruptly from his seat.

"You have given us a great treat," he said in a low voice as Elizabeth
stepped through the window. Mr. Carlyon was laying aside the pile of
songs in the music cabinet as neatly as though it were an accustomed
duty. Malcolm gave him an impatient glance. "One would think he
belonged to the house," he said to himself rather crossly.

"Please do not thank me," returned Elizabeth smiling; her eyes were
very bright, and there was a warm flush on her fa