imperativeness, and put an end to the chords.

"Look at the time," said he, drawing attention to the gilt clock on an
occasional table. The phrase "hard and cold" echoed in his ears to mock
him.

"It is certainly late!" she gasped, as she realised that the hands
pointed to a quarter past eleven. "But I am so lonely and dull. Do sing
to me!"

A mischievous smile twisted his lips as he struck the opening bars of
_The Dear Homeland_. "It's an old ballad and will probably bore you to
tears," he said, before beginning to sing. Joyce had often heard it
sung, but never with the feeling Captain Dalton threw into it for her
benefit alone. It was a strong and direct appeal to nostalgia, and the
quality of his voice, together with the words, dissolved her into tears
of positive distress. When he had finished, she was weeping silently
into her little hands,--unaffectedly and sincerely.

"I cannot bear it!" she sobbed childishly. "Why did you choose that when
you knew how I am longing for home and the home faces!"

"I am a brute, am I not?" he said repentantly, taking down her hands and
drying her eyes with his handkerchief. "Was it a nasty fellow, then, to
tease?"

"It was," she laughed hysterically with downcast lids and sobbing
breath, looking adorable with her saddened wet eyes and crimson flush.

"Come, I'll make up for it and sing you something quite different." And
he was as good as his word, singing passionate love-songs that swore
eternal devotion to a mythical "Beloved," till a clock, striking twelve,
brought him abruptly to his feet.

"Do you always allow your visitors to stay so late?" he asked while
saying good-night.

"I never have visitors at night when I am alone," she returned,
surprised. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you are too pretty and will have to be careful. Pretty women
have enemies of both sexes."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that men will want to make love to you if you are too kind, and
women will tear your reputation to shreds."

He watched the flush deepen in her cheeks: she was uncertain how to take
his remark, but decided he had not meant a liberty.

"I think I shall always fear women more than men," she said finally,
thinking of the slanderous tongues of her sex.

"Am I forgiven for having made you cry?" he asked.

"Of course. Thank you so much for the songs. You sing like an angel."

"A very bad one I'm afraid," he returned. "With your leave I shall take
this rose as a pledge,"