ed her hearer.

Harvey wondered at this sudden revival of his wife's drooping energies.
But he did not consider the phenomenon too curiously; enough that Alma
was brilliant and delightful, that she played her part of hostess to
perfection, and communicated to their guest something of her own
vitality.

They had an exhilarating drive through the mountains to Tre'r Caeri, a
British fastness on a stern bare height; crumbled dwellings amid their
great protecting walls, with cairn and cromlech and mystic circles;
where in old time the noise of battle clanged amid these grey hills,
now sleeping in sunlight. And from Tre'r Caeri down into the rocky
gloom of the seaward chasm, Nant Gwrtheyrn, with its mound upon the
desolate shore, called by legend the burial-place of Vortigern. Here
Mrs. Abbott spoke of the prehistoric monuments she had seen in
Brittany, causing Alma to glance at her with a sudden surprise. The
impulse was very significant. Thinking of her guest only as a
poverty-stricken teacher of children, Alma forgot for the moment that
this subdued woman had known happier days, when she too boasted of
liberty, and stored her mind in travel. After all, as soon appeared,
the travels had been of very modest extent; and Alma, with her
knowledge of many European countries, and her recent ocean voyage,
regained the confident superiority which kept her in such admirable
humour.

Mary Abbott, reluctant to converse on things that regarded herself,
afforded Alma every opportunity of shining. She knew of Mrs. Rolfe's
skill as a musician, and this same evening uttered a hope that she
might hear her play. The violin came forth from its retirement.
Playing, it seemed at first, without much earnestness, as though it
were but a pastime, Alma presently chose one of her pageant pieces, and
showed of what she was capable. Lack of practice had told upon her
hand, but the hearers were uncritical, as she well knew.

'That's magnificent,' said Harvey, with a mischievous smile. 'But do
condescend now to the primitive ear. Let us have something of less
severity.'

Alma glanced at Mrs. Abbott, who had softly murmured her thanks; then
turned an eye upon her husband, saying wickedly, 'Home, Sweet Home?'

'I've no doubt you could play it wonderfully--as you would "Three Blind
Mice".'

Alma looked good-natured disdain, and chose next a Tarantelle of
Schubert. The exertion of playing brought warm colour into her face; it
heightened her beauty