eally his voice
was nothing so very wonderful, and he was not much of an acquisition in
other ways.

Then Dare took his opportunity. He dropped into Charles's vacant chair;
he wound wool; he wished to learn to knit; his inquiring mind craved for
information respecting shooting-stockings. He talked of music; of
songs--Italian, French, and English; of American nigger melodies. Would
Miss Deyncourt sing? Might he accompany her? Ah! she preferred the
simple old English ballads. He _loved_ the simple English ballad.

And Ruth, nothing loath, sang in her fresh, clear voice one song after
another, Dare accompanying her with rapid sympathy and ease.

Charles put down his paper and moved slightly, so that he had a better
view of the piano. Evelyn laid down her work and looked affectionately
at Ruth.

"Exquisite," said Lady Mary from time to time, who had said the same of
Lady Grace's wavering little soprano.

"You also sing duets? You sing duets?" eagerly inquired Dare, the
music-stool creaking with his suppressed excitement; and, without
waiting for an answer, he began playing the opening chords of
"Greeting."

The two voices rose and fell together, now soft, now triumphant,
harmonizing as if they sung together for years. Dare's second was low,
pathetic, and it blended at once with Ruth's clear young contralto.
Charles wondered that the others should applaud when the duet was
finished. Ruth's voice went best alone in his opinion.

"And the 'Cold Blast'?" asked Dare, immediately afterwards. "The 'Cold
Blast' was here a moment ago,"--turning the leaves over rapidly. "You
are not tired, Miss Deyncourt?"

"Tired!" replied Ruth, her eyes sparkling. "It never tires me to sing.
It rests me."

"Ah! so it is with me. That is just how I feel," said Dare. "To sing, or
to listen to the voice of--of--"

"Of what? Confound him!" wondered Charles.

"Of _another_," said Dare. "Ah, here he is!" and he pounced on another
song, and lightly touched the opening chords.

"'Oh! wert thou in the cold blast,'"

sang Ruth, fresh and sweet.

"'I'd shelter thee,'"

Dare assured her with manly fervor. He went on to say what he would do
if he were monarch of the realm, affirming that the brightest jewel of
his crown would be his queen.

"Anyhow, he can't pronounce Scotch," Charles thought.

"Would be his queen," Dare repeated, with subdued emotion and an upward
glance at Ruth, which she was too much absorbed in the song to s