).

Her hair is drawn back into its old loose knot behind, in the simple
style that suits her. She has a tiny band of black velvet round her
neck. How fair she is,--how sweet, yet full of a tender melancholy! He
is glad in his heart for that little pensive shade, and thinks, though
more fragile, she never looked so lovely in her life.

She has commenced the last verse:

"Oh, that we two lay sleeping
In our nest in the church-yard sod,
With our limbs at rest
On the quiet earth's breast,
And our souls at home with God!"

She is almost safely through it. There is such a deadly silence as ever
presages a storm, when by some luckless chance her eyes, that seldom
wander, fall full on Luttrell's upturned, agitated face.

His fascinated, burning gaze compels her to return it. Oh, that he
should see her here, singing before all these people! For the first
time a terrible sense of shame overpowers her; a longing to escape the
eyes that from all parts of the hall appear to stare at her and
criticise her voice--herself!

She turns a little faint, wavers slightly, and then breaks down.

Covering her face with her hands, and with a gesture of passion and
regret, she falls hurriedly into the background and is gone.

Immediately kindly applause bursts forth. What has happened to the
favorite? Is she ill, or faint, or has some lost dead chord of her life
suddenly sounded again? Every one is at a loss, and every one is
curious. It is interesting,--perhaps the most interesting part of the
whole performance,--and to-morrow will tell them all about it.

Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashen
white. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment
of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him,
gently forced him back again into his seat.

"My friend, consider _her_," he whispers, in a firm but soft
voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and,
leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and
follows him.

Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian
takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself.

"She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone
as carries away all suspicion of impertinence.

"Yes," answers Luttrell, simply.

"Well, and I love her too,--as a pupil,--a beloved pupil," says the
elder man, with a smile, removing his spe