way as it travelled down the space of the long room.
Presently it came nearer; the verses were still going on--

"Oh, lang, lang may the ladies sit,
With their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand.

And lang lang may the maidens sit,
With their gowd combs in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair."

"Betty," said a feeble little voice--a child's voice, apparently quite
close to the window now--"I want you to say those two verses over again;
I like them. And the one about the old moon with the new moon in her
arms; isn't that pretty?"

"You like that, do you, my little Jack?" said the woman's voice; a rich,
low voice, so melodious in its loving tones that Stretton positively
started when he heard it, for it had been carefully subdued to monotony
during the recitation, and he had not realised its full sweetness. "Do
you know, darling, I thought that you were asleep?"

"Asleep, Betty? I never go to sleep when you are saying poetry to me.
Aren't you tired of carrying me?"

"I am never tired of carrying you, Jack."

"My own dear, sweet Queen Bess!" There was the sound of a long, loving
kiss; and then the slow pacing up and down and the recitation
re-commenced.

Stretton had thought that morning that nothing could induce him to
interest himself again in the world's affairs; but at that moment he was
conscious of the strongest possible feeling of curiosity to see the
owner of so sweet a voice. The slightest movement on his part, the
slightest possible push given to the window, which opened into the room
like a door and was already ajar, would have enabled him to see the
speakers. But he would not do this. He told himself that he ought to
move away from the window, but self-government failed him a little at
that point. He could not lose the opportunity of hearing that beautiful
voice again. "It ought to belong to a beautiful woman," he thought, with
a half smile, "but, unfortunately, Nature's gifts are distributed very
sparingly sometimes. This girl, whosoever she may be--for I know she is
young--has a lovely voice, and probably a crooked figure or a squint. I
suppose she is Mr. Heron's daughter. Ah, here he comes!"

The artist's flying grey beard and loose velvet coat were seen upon the
terrace at this moment. "I cannot find the sketch," he cried,
dolorously. "The servants have been tidying