go so soon," she
said briefly to Orde, "but of course church business--We shall hope to
see you often."

Once more Orde held aside the curtains. The flame-bird drooped from the
twilight of the hall into the dimness of the parlour. All the brightness
seemed to have drained from the day, and all the joy of life seemed
to have faded from the girl's soul. She sank into a chair, and tried
pathetically to smile across at Orde.

"I'm such a baby about disappointments," said she.

"I know," he replied, very gently.

"And it's such a blue and gold day."

"I know," he repeated.

She twisted her glove in her lap, a bright spot of colour burning in
each cheek.

"Mother is not well, and she has a great deal to try her. Poor mother!"
she said softly, her head cast down.

"I know," said Orde in his gentle tones.

After a moment he arose to go. She remained seated, her head down.

"I'm sorry about this afternoon," said he cheerfully, "but it couldn't
be helped, could it? Jane used to tell me about your harp playing. I'm
going to come in to hear you this evening. May I?"

"Yes," she said, in a stifled voice, and held out her hand. She sat
quite still until she heard the front door close after him; then she ran
to the curtains and looked after his sturdy, square figure, as it swung
up the street.

"Well done; oh, well done, gentle heart!" she breathed after him. Then
she went back to the piano.

But Orde's mouth, could she have seen it, was set in grim lines, and
his feet, could she have heard them, rang on the pavement with quite
superfluous vigour. He turned to the left, and, without pause, walked
some ten or twelve miles.

The evening turned out very well, fortunately; Orde could not have stood
much more. They had the parlour quite to themselves. Carroll took the
cover from the tall harp, and, leaning her cheek against it, she played
dreamily for a half hour. Her arms were bare, and as her fingers reached
out lingeringly and caressingly to draw the pure, golden chords from
the golden instrument, her soft bosom pressed against the broad
sounding board. There is about the tones of a harp well played something
luminous, like rich, warm sunlight. When the girl muted the strings at
last, it seemed to Orde as though all at once the room had perceptibly
darkened. He took his leave finally, his spirit soothed and restored.

Tranquillity was not for long, however. Orde's visits were, naturally,
as frequent as possible. To t