?'

'I don't want to know,' she answered, confirmed in her suspicion, and at
the same time ashamed of the alteration of feeling which the discovery
had occasioned.

An uncomfortable silence followed, broken by Robert.

'Gin ye binna pleased wi' me, mem,' he said, 'I canna bide ye to gang on
wi' siccan a job 's that.'

How Miss St. John could have understood him, I cannot think; but she
did.

'Oh! very well,' she answered, smiling. 'Just as you please. Perhaps you
had better take this piece of plaster to Betty, and ask her to finish
the dressing for you.'

Robert took the plaster mechanically, and, sick at heart and speechless,
rose to go, forgetting even his bonny leddy in his grief.

'You had better take your violin with you,' said Miss St. John, urged
to the cruel experiment by a strong desire to see what the strange boy
would do.

He turned. The tears were streaming down his odd face. They went to her
heart, and she was bitterly ashamed of herself.

'Come along. Do sit down again. I only wanted to see what you would do.
I am very sorry,' she said, in a tone of kindness such as Robert had
never imagined.

He sat down instantly, saying,

'Eh, mem! it's sair to bide;' meaning, no doubt, the conflict between
his inclination to tell her all, and his duty to be silent.

The dressing was soon finished, his hair combed down over it, and Robert
looking once more respectable.

'Now, I think that will do,' said his nurse.

'Eh, thank ye, mem!' answered Robert, rising. 'Whan I'm able to play
upo' the fiddle as weel 's ye play upo' the piana, I'll come and play at
yer window ilka nicht, as lang 's ye like to hearken.'

She smiled, and he was satisfied. He did not dare again ask her to play
to him. But she said of herself, 'Now I will play something to you, if
you like,' and he resumed his seat devoutly.

When she had finished a lovely little air, which sounded to Robert
like the touch of her hands, and her breath on his forehead, she
looked round, and was satisfied, from the rapt expression of the boy's
countenance, that at least he had plenty of musical sensibility. As if
despoiled of volition, he stood motionless till she said,

'Now you had better go, or Betty will miss you.'

Then he made her a bow in which awkwardness and grace were curiously
mingled, and taking up his precious parcel, and holding it to his bosom
as if it had been a child for whom he felt an access of tenderness, he
slowly left the ro