it will make me happy, because I shall know you
are well amused." I did not like to tell her how distasteful Coralie's
playing and singing were to me. We went into the drawing-room together.
I saw how everything was prepared for me; there were fresh flowers, my
favorite periodicals, my favorite chair, placed in the nook I liked
best.

"I shall sing to you some gay French chansons," said Coralie, "and we
will leave the door open so that Clare may hear them."

A few moments later and I was in an atmosphere of delight. The rich,
sweet music rose and fell; it cheered me like strong wine.

Then after a time its character changed; it was no longer gay,
triumphant and mirthful. The very spirit of love and pathos seemed to
breathe through it. My heart beat; every nerve thrilled; every sense
answered to these sweet, soft words.

It ceased then, and Coralie came over to the bay-window. She sat down
upon the Turkish curtains, and looked with longing eyes at the light on
the trees and flowers. There was a softened expression on her face, a
flush as of awakened emotion, a new and brighter light in those dark,
dangerous eyes. The white fingers trembled, the white bosom heaved as
though she had felt deeply the words she had been singing.

Then it was said she would rather be mistress of Crown Anstey than Queen
of Great Britain.

I laughed, not knowing what to say.

"Crown Anstey ought to thank you very much," I said. "You pay it a great
compliment."

"My heart is here," she continued, those dreamy eyes still fixed upon
mine. "I think if any one were to say to me, 'You must leave Crown
Anstey,' I should die."

All the music on earth seemed embodied in those few words.

"I should die," she repeated, "just as a flower dies when it is torn
from the soil it has taken deep root."

"Why do you speak of such things?" I asked. "No one thinks of your
going; this is your home."

"In my happiest hours the fear lies heaviest upon me," she replied. "No
one has ever spoken of my going, that is true; but I have common sense,
and common sense tells me if certain events happen I must go."

"What events do you mean?" I asked, all unconsciously.

She sighed deeply.

"If you were to be married, Sir Edgar--Cousin Edgar, I like to say
best--then I must go."

"I do not see the necessity."

"Ah! you do not understand; women are all jealous. I have grown so
accustomed to perform a hundred little services for you, they make the
pleasure a