delicious things over
on the beach. I do not know what they were, but they were not like our
things at all." And, with a slight gesture of repugnance, he pushed
aside his plate.

"You had better go to bed," said Miss Elisabetha, rising. In her
perplexity this was the first thing which suggested itself to her; a
good night's rest had been known to work wonders; she would say no more
till morning. The boy went readily; but he must have taken his guitar
with him, for long after Miss Elisabetha had retired to her couch she
heard him softly singing again and again the romance of the miller's
daughter. Several times she half rose as if to go and stop him; then a
confused thought came to her that perhaps his unrest might work itself
off in that way, and she sank back, listening meanwhile to the fanciful
melody with feelings akin to horror. It seemed to have no regular time,
and the harmony was new and strange to her old-fashioned ears. "Truly,
it must be the work of a composer gone mad," said the poor old maid,
after trying in vain for the fifth time to follow the wild air. There
was not one trill or turn in all its length, and the accompaniment,
instead of being the decorous one octave in the bass, followed by two or
three chords according to the time, seemed to be but a general sweeping
over the strings, with long pauses, and unexpected minor harmony
introduced, turning the air suddenly upside down, and then back again
before one had time to comprehend what was going on. "Heaven help me!"
said Miss Elisabetha, as the melody began again for the sixth time, "but
I fear I am sinful enough to hate that miller's daughter." And it was
very remarkable, to say the least, that a person in her position "was
possessed of a jewel to tremble in her ear," she added censoriously,
"not even to speak of a necklace." But the comfort was cold, and, before
she knew it, slow, troubled tears had dampened her pillow.

Early the next morning she was astir by candle-light, and, going into
the detached kitchen, began preparing breakfast with her own hands,
adding to the delicacies already ordered certain honey-cakes, an
heirloom in the Daarg family. Viny could scarcely believe her eyes when,
on coming down to her domain at the usual hour, she found the great
fireplace glowing, and the air filled with the fragrance of spices;
Christmas alone had heretofore seen these honey-cakes, and to-day was
only a common day!

"I do not care for anything, aunt