s delighted to
find an opponent worth playing with, and henceforth there were games
almost every morning or evening, though Sir Guy seemed not to care much
about them, except for the sake of pleasing him.

When left to himself, Guy spent his time in reading or in walking about
the lanes alone. He used to sit in the bay-window of the drawing-room
with his book; but sometimes, when they least expected it, the
girls would find his quick eyes following them with an air of amused
curiosity, as Amabel waited on Charles and her flowers, or Laura
drew, wrote letters, and strove to keep down the piles of books and
periodicals under which it seemed as if her brother might some day be
stifled--a vain task, for he was sure to want immediately whatever she
put out of his reach.

Laura and Amabel both played and sung, the former remarkably well, and
the first time they had any music after the arrival of Sir Guy, his look
of delighted attention struck everyone. He ventured nearer, stood by the
piano when they practised, and at last joined in with a few notes of
so full and melodious a voice, that Laura turned round in surprise,
exclaiming, 'You sing better I than any of us!'

He coloured. 'I beg your pardon,' he said, 'I could not help it; I know
nothing of music.'

'Really!' said Laura, smiling incredulously.

'I don't even know the notes.'

'Then you must have a very good ear. Let us try again.'

The sisters were again charmed and surprised, and Guy looked gratified,
as people do at the discovery of a faculty which they are particularly
glad to possess. It was the first time he appeared to brighten, and
Laura and her mother agreed that it would do him good to have plenty of
music, and to try to train that fine voice. He was beginning to interest
them all greatly by his great helpfulness and kindness to Charles, as
he learnt the sort of assistance he required, as well as by the
silent grief that showed how much attached he must have been to his
grandfather.

On the first Sunday, Mrs. Edmonstone coming into the drawing-room at
about half-past five, found him sitting alone by the fire, his dog lying
at his feet. As he started up, she asked if he had been here in the dark
ever since church-time?

'I have not wanted light,' he answered with a sigh, long, deep, and
irrepressible, and as she stirred the fire, the flame revealed to her
the traces of tears. She longed to comfort him, and said--

'This Sunday twilight is a quiet