red ever under a strange restraint in the presence of
Dr. Vaughan. She seemed always to endeavor to keep either her sister
or her friend at her side, as if she found herself more at ease while
in their proximity. Evidently she was keeping close guard over
herself. And just as evidently she was glad to be in the presence of
Clarence Vaughan when supported by her sister and friend, and safe
from a _tete-a-tete_.

Mrs. Ralston was really troubled by this apparent misunderstanding, or
whatever it might be, that rendered Claire less cordial towards Dr.
Vaughan than she would have been to one who was only a friend, and far
less worthy of friendship. She mentally resolved, when a fitting
opportunity should occur, to endeavor to win the confidence of the
girl, for she saw that two natures, formed to love each other, were
drifting apart, with no prospect of a better understanding. And that
opportunity came sooner than she had expected.

One day, a day destined to be always remembered by the chief actors in
our strange drama, Mrs. Ralston seated herself at a davenport in Mrs.
Girard's pretty library to write a letter to Mr. Lord. The promptness
and energy of that good man had completely baffled the acute
detective, and the danger which Mrs. Ralston had so much feared, the
danger of being discovered by her worthless husband, was now past.

She had entered the library through the drawing-room and, both rooms
being untenanted, had left the door of communication between them half
open.

Sitting thus, she heard the door of the drawing-room open, and the
rustle of feminine garments betokened the entrance of one of her
friends. Presently soft ripples of music fell upon her ear, and she
knew that it was Claire who was now at the piano, playing dreamily,
softly, as if half fearful of awakening some beloved sleeper.

After a few moments, the ripple changed to a plaintive minor
accompaniment, that had in it an undertone as of far-off winds and
waves. Then the full, clear voice of the girl rang out in that most
beautiful of songs, which alone should make famous the genius of Jean
Ingelow and Virginie Gabriel:

"When sparrows build and the leaves break forth,
My old sorrow wakes and cries."

The singer sang on, all unconscious that two listeners were noting the
passion and pain in her voice:

"How could I tell I could love thee to-day,
When that day I held not dear?
How could I know I should love thee, aw