wning an antique pedestal,--the golden pipes of the organ
gleaming through the shadows,--all these gave a solemn, almost sacred
aspect to the room. The noise of the dancing and festivity in the
distant picture-gallery did not penetrate here, and Lorimer sat at the
organ, drawing out a few plaintive strains from its keys as he talked.

"It's your fancy, Pierre," he said slowly. "Thelma may be a little tired
to-day, perhaps--but I know she's perfectly happy."

"I think not so," returned Duprez. "She has not the brightness--the
angel look--_les yeux d'enfant_,--that we beheld in her at that far
Norwegian Fjord. Britta is anxious for her."

Lorimer looked up, and smiled a little.

"Britta? It's always Britta with you, _mon cher_! One would think--" he
paused and laughed.

"Think what you please!" exclaimed Duprez, with a defiant snap of his
fingers. "I would not give that little person for all the _grandes
dames_ here to-day! She is charming--and she is _true_!--_Ma foi!_ to be
true to any one is a virtue in this age! I tell you, my good boy, there
is something sorrowful--heavy--on _la belle_ Thelma's mind--and Britta,
who sees her always, feels it--but she cannot speak. One thing I will
tell you--it is a pity she is so fond of Miladi Winsleigh."

"Why?" asked Lorimer, with some eagerness.

"Because--" he stopped abruptly as a white figure suddenly appeared at
the doorway, and a musical voice addressed them--

"Why, what are you both doing here, away from everybody?" and Thelma
smiled as she approached. "You are hermits, or you are lazy! People are
going in to supper. Will you not come also?"

"_Ma foi!_" exclaimed Duprez; "I had forgotten! I have promised your
most charming mother, _cher_ Lorimer, to take her in to this same
supper. I must fly upon the wings of chivalry!"

And with a laugh, he hurried off, leaving Thelma and Lorimer alone
together. She sank rather wearily into a chair near the organ, and
looked at him.

"Play me something!" she said softly.

A strange thrill quivered through him as he met her eyes--the sweet,
deep, earnest eyes of the woman he loved. For it was no use attempting
to disguise it from himself--he loved her passionately, wildly,
hopelessly; as he had loved her from the first.

Obedient to her wish, his fingers wandered over the organ-keys in a
strain of solemn, weird, yet tender melancholy--the grand, rich notes
pealed forth sobbingly--and she listened, her hands clasped idly in