any objection
at all.

'What makes it so interesting,' said Mrs. Doncastle to Ethelberta, when
the song was over and she had retired from the focus of the company, 'is,
that it is played from the composer's own copy, which has never met the
public eye, or any other than his own before to-day. And I see that he
has actually sketched in the lines by hand, instead of having ruled
paper--just as the great old composers used to do. You must have been as
pleased to get it fresh from the stocks like that as he probably was
pleased to get your thanks.'

Ethelberta became reflective. She had not thanked Christopher; moreover,
she had decided, after some consideration, that she ought not to thank
him. What new thoughts were suggested by that remark of Mrs.
Doncastle's, and what new inclination resulted from the public
presentation of his tune and her words as parts of one organic whole, are
best explained by describing her doings at a later hour, when, having
left her friends somewhat early, she had reached home and retired from
public view for that evening.

Ethelberta went to her room, sent away the maid who did double duty for
herself and Lady Petherwin, walked in circles about the carpet till the
fire had grown haggard and cavernous, sighed, took a sheet of paper and
wrote:--

'DEAR MR. JULIAN,--I have said I would not write: I have said it
twice; but discretion, under some circumstances, is only another name
for unkindness. Before thanking you for your sweet gift, let me tell
you in a few words of something which may materially change an aspect
of affairs under which I appear to you to deserve it.

'With regard to my history and origin you are altogether mistaken; and
how can I tell whether your bitterness at my previous silence on those
points may not cause you to withdraw your act of courtesy now? But
the gratification of having at last been honest with you may
compensate even for the loss of your respect.

'The matter is a small one to tell, after all. What will you say on
learning that I am not the trodden-down "lady by birth" that you have
supposed me? That my father is not dead, as you probably imagine;
that he is working for his living as one among a peculiarly
stigmatized and ridiculed multitude?

'Had he been a brawny cottager, carpenter, mason, blacksmith, well-
digger, navvy, tree-feller--any effective and manly trade, in short, a
worker in wh