glish ballads, Irish
melodies, and Jacobite songs, which last she seemed to take
particular pleasure in. During a pause, Mr. Escourt said,

"Pray, Miss Moore, what was it you were singing to-day before
dinner, in your own garden? Something very wild and pretty."

"Did you detect me making a noise?" she asked with a smile; "a
shocking noise, my little brother calls it. He did not wish to
find fault with me himself the other day, so he whispered to
me while he was playing with some wooden animals, 'Rosa, these
deer say to me that you make a shocking noise.' But this is
what you mean, I suppose," and she began Montrose's love-song.

"This may be all very well," exclaimed Mr. Escourt, when she
had sung it, "for a man who fights and writes verses; who
carries, as he says, a sword and a pen, as should his mistress
discard him, he would no doubt console himself with that same
sword and pen: but I should think, with nine women out of ten,
a dismissal would be the result of so very dictatorial a
declaration. With, only listen to him:" and he repeated the
following lines:--

"Like Alexander I would reign,
And I would reign alone;
My soul did evermore disdain
A rival in my throne,
He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch
To win or lose it all.

Would you stand this, Miss Moore?"

"Why," she said, as her fingers ran carelessly over the keys,
"I should not feel much inclined to let Alexander reign _at
all;_ but I should not quarrel with him for choosing to reign
_alone_. Would you, Ellen?"

"No," I answered, "only for believing it possible that he did
_not_ reign alone."

I involuntarily turned my eyes towards Edward's as I said
this. They met his, and their expression was so earnest and
affectionate that a thrill of pleasure ran through me.

Mr. Escourt laughed and said,

"Why, you would have your hero still more convicted than he
is. To my mind,

'I'll never love thee more,'

is, under any circumstances, the most impertinent speech a
lover can make, and one which no woman ought to forgive."

"Oh, indeed[]" exclaimed Mr. Manby, "I am quite like Montrose,
I would never care for a woman who did not love me above all
things."

"Nor make her famous by your pen, nor glorious by your sword?"
murmured Rosa, as she bent over the music-books.

Edward smiled; but this time it was my eyes he sought; and by
my side he sat down, when we