tared at
him in surprise. There was something a little odd about this grey-haired
young man after all. But, after a pause, the stranger seemed to recover
his self-possession, and repeated his excuses more intelligibly. Mr.
Heron was sorry to hear of his probable departure.

They wandered round the garden together. It was a pleasant place, with
terraced walks and shady alcoves, so quaint and trim that it might well
have passed for that fair garden to which Boccaccio's fine ladies and
gallant cavaliers fled when the plague raged in Florence, or for the
scene on which the hapless Francesca looked when she read the story of
Lancelot that led to her own undoing. Some such fancies as these passed
through the crannies of Stretton's mind while he seemed to be listening
to Mr. Heron's mildly-pedantic allocutions, and absorbed in the
consideration of mediaeval art. Mr. Heron was in raptures with his
listener.

"Oh, by-the-bye," said the artist, suddenly, as they paused beside one
of the windows on the terrace, "if I may trouble you to wait here a
minute, I will go and fetch the sketch I have made of the garden from
this point. You will excuse me for a moment. Won't you go inside the
house? The window is open--go in, if you like."

He disappeared into another portion of the house, leaving Stretton
somewhat amused by his host's unceremonious demeanour. He did not accept
the invitation; he leaned against the wall rather languidly, as though
fatigued by his long walk, and tried to make friends with a beautiful
peacock which seemed to expect him to feed it, and yet was half-afraid
to approach.

As he waited, a gentle sound, of which he had been conscious ever since
he halted close to the window, rose more distinctly upon his ear. It was
the sound of a voice engaged in some sort of monotonous reading or
reciting, and it seemed first to advance to the window near which he
stood and then to recede. He soon discovered that it was accompanied by
a soft but regular footfall. It was plain that somebody--some woman,
evidently--was pacing the floor of the room to which this window
belonged, and that she was repeating poetry, either to herself or to
some silent listener. As she came near the window, Stretton heard the
words of an old ballad with which he was himself familiar--

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
Wi' the old moon in her arm:
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'd come to harm."

The voice died a