my, haunting melody, with a touch of sadness in it, and Brian,
lying lazily on the sofa, listened. Then she sang a gay little French
song about Love and a Butterfly, with a mocking refrain, which made
Brian laugh.

"A memory of Offenbach," he said, rising and coming over to the piano.
"We certainly can't approach the French in writing these airy trifles."

"They're unsatisfactory, I think," said Madge, running her fingers over
the keys; "they mean nothing."

"Of course not," he replied, "but don't you remember that De Quincy
says there is no moral either big or little in the Iliad."

"Well, I think there's more music in Barbara Allan than all those
frothy things," said Madge, with fine scorn. "Come and sing it."

"A five-act funeral, it is," groaned Brian, as he rose to obey; "let's
have Garry Owen instead."

Nothing else however would suit the capricious young person at the
piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint old ditty of
cruel Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with such disdain.

"Sir John Graham was an ass," said Brian, when he had finished; "or,
instead of dying in such a silly manner, he'd have married her right
off, without asking her permission."

"I don't think she was worth marrying," replied Madge, opening a book
of Mendelssohn's duets; "or she wouldn't have made such a fuss over her
health not being drunk."

"Depend upon it, she was a plain woman," remarked Brian, gravely, "and
was angry because she wasn't toasted among the rest of the country
belles. I think the young man had a narrow escape--she'd always have
reminded him about that unfortunate oversight."

"You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well," said Madge, a
little dryly; "however, we'll leave the failings of Barbara Allan
alone, and sing this."

This was Mendelssohn's charming duet, "Would that my Love," which was a
great favourite of Brian's. They were in the middle of it when suddenly
Madge stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her
father's study. Recollecting Dr. Chinston's warning, she ran out of the
room, and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious
departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much
importance to it.

Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it
was locked.

"Who's there?" asked her father, sharply, from inside.

"Only me, papa," she answered. "I thought you were--"

"No! No--I'm all ri