oor.

"Fate," he muttered. "It was no doing of mine." Andrews admitted him
as a matter of course, and led the way to the drawing room, where he
announced his name.

Myra started from a couch, where she had been sitting alone, dreaming;
and as Stratton advanced his pulses began to beat heavily, for never had
the woman he idolised looked so beautiful as then.

There was a faint flush in her soft, creamy cheeks, the trace of emotion
in her heaving bosom, as she greeted him consciously; for she had been
sitting alone, thinking of him and his proposal to her father, and the
next minute the door had been opened, and he stood before her.

"It is almost by accident that I am here," he said, in a low voice full
of emotion, which he vainly strove to control. "Your cousin? The
admiral?"

"Did you not know?" said Myra in a voice as deep and tremulous as his
own. "Mr Guest came with tickets for the opera. He knew my father
liked the one played to-night--`Faust.'"

"Indeed!" said Stratton huskily.

"He goes for the sake of the great scene of the return of the men from
the war. I think he would never tire of hearing that grand march."

She left the couch, conscious of a strange feeling of agitation, and,
crossing to the piano, seated herself, and began to play softly the
second strain in the spirit-stirring composition, gradually gliding into
the jewel song quite unconsciously, and with trembling fingers. Then
she awoke to the fact that Stratton had followed her to the instrument,
against which he leaned, with the tones thrilling his nerves, tones set
vibrating by the touch of hands that he would have given worlds to clasp
in his own, while he poured forth the words struggling for exit.

"It is fate," he said to himself, as he stood there gazing down at the
beautiful head with its glossy hair, the curve of the creamy neck, and
the arms and hands whiter than the ivory over which they strayed.

So sudden--so wondrous. The only thing in his thoughts had been that he
might be near her for a time, and hear her words, while now they were
alone in the soft, dim light of the drawing room, and the touch of her
fingers on those keys sent that dreamy, sensuous, glorious music
thrilling through every fibre of his body. Friend? How could he be
friend? He loved her passionately, and, cold as she might ever be,
however she might trample upon his feelings, she must always be the same
to him--his ideal--his love--the only woman