inished, she disappeared
behind the curtains as rapidly as she had emerged from the shadows of
the dimly-lighted inner room; and in the pause that followed, the
opening and shutting of a door was heard.

"Who is she?" said Sydney to his neighbor.

"Oh, Miss Pynsent, of course," said Mrs. Murray. "Delightful, isn't
she?"

"I don't mean Miss Pynsent," said Sydney, in some confusion of mind; "I
mean----"

But Mrs. Murray had turned to somebody else, and scraps of conversation
floated up to Sydney's ears, and gave him, as he thought, the
information that he was seeking.

"So devoted to Lady Pynsent's children! Now that little Frankie has a
cold, they say she won't leave him night or day. They had the greatest
trouble to get her down to play to-night. Awfully lucky for Lady
Pynsent," and then the voices were lowered, but Sydney heard something
about "the last governess," and "a perfect treasure," which seemed to
reveal the truth.

"The governess! A violin-playing governess," he thought, with a mixture
of scorn and relief, which he did not altogether understand in himself.
"Ah! that's the reason she did not come down to dinner. She is a very
pretty girl, and no doubt Lady Pynsent keeps her in the nursery or
schoolroom as much as possible. I should like to see her again. Perhaps,
as to-morrow is Sunday, she may come down with the children."

It will be evident to the meanest capacity that Sydney was making an
absurd mistake as to the identity of the violinist. The most
unsophisticated novel-reader in the world would cast contempt and
ridicule on the present writers if they, in their joint capacity,
introduced the young lady in white as actually Lady Pynsent's governess.
To avoid misunderstanding on the point, therefore, it may as well be
premised that she was in fact Miss Anna Pynsent, Sir John's half sister,
and that Mr. Campion's conclusions respecting her position were
altogether without foundation.

Having, however, made up his mind about her, Sydney took little further
interest in the matter. One or two complimentary remarks were made in
his hearing about Miss Pynsent's playing; but he took them to apply to
the sandy-haired Miss Pynsent whom he had seen at dinner, and only made
a silent cynical note of the difference with which the violinist and the
accompanist were treated. He never flew in the face of the world
himself, and therefore he did not try to readjust the balance of
compliment: he simply acquiesced i