"they'll do all they can to beat us, and we
shall have to do all we know to hold our
own. When I say 'we,' of course I reckon
you as, a Conservative?"

"I—I have no political opinions. I take
no interest in politics," said Joyce, absently.
Mr. Creswell, from any but a domestic point
of view, could not rouse an emotion in him.

"Don't you indeed! No political
opinions! Ah! I remember when I
hadn't any myself! That was—dear me!"
and the astute parliamentary agent made
a new pattern with the olive-stones, while
his thoughts went back for a quarter of a
century, to a time when he was under
articles in Gray's Inn, used to frequent the
Cyder Cellars, and was desperately in love
with the Columbine of the Adelphi.

They went to the drawing-room soon
afterwards. There was some instrumental
music of the most approved firework style,
and then Captain Frampton growled away
at "Il Balen" with great success, and
Joyce was just making up his mind to slip
away, when Lady Caroline Mansergh sat
down to the piano, and began to sing one
of Moore's melodies to her own accompaniment.
Ah! surely it is not laying oneself
open to the charge of fogeyism to grieve
over the relegation to the "Canterbury"
of those charming ballads, wherein the
brightest fancies were wedded to the
sweetest sounds? If the "makers of the
people's ballads" possess the power ascribed
to them, there is, indeed, but little cause to
wonder at the want of tone prevalent in a
society which, for its drawing-room music,
alternates between mawkish sentimentality
and pot-house slang! When the first note
of Lady Caroline's rich contralto voice
rippled round the room, the guests standing
about in small knots, coffee cup in hand,
gradually sidled towards the piano, and ere
she had sung the first stanza even Colonel
Tapp's ventriloquial grumbling—he was
discussing  army estimates and the infernal
attempts at cheeseparing of the
Manchester school—was hushed. No one in
the room was uninfluenced by the singer's
spell, on no one had it so much effect as on
Walter Joyce, who sat far away in the
shadow of a curtain, an open photograph-
book unheeded on his knee, drinking in the
melody, and surrendering himself entirely
to its potent charms. His eyes were fixed
on the singer, now on her expressive face,
now on her delicate little hands as they
went softly wandering over the keys, but
his thoughts were very, very far away. Far
away in the old school garden, with its
broad grass-plots, its ruddy wall, its high
elm-trees, frame-like bordering the sweet
domestic picture. Far away with Marian,
the one love which his soul had ever known.
Ah, how visibly he saw her then, the trim
figure noiselessly moving about on its
domestic errands, the bright beryl eyes
upturned in eager questioning towards his
own, the delicate hand with its long thin
fingers laid in such trusting confidence on
his arm. What ages it seemed since he
had seen her! what a tremendous gulf
seemed ever to separate them! And what
prospect was there of that union for which
they had so fervently prayed? The position
he was to gain—where was that?
What progress had he made in—"friends
once linked together, I've seen around me
fall, like leaves in wintry weather!" Ay,
ay, the poor old dominie, at rest—better
there than anywhere else, better to be out
of the strife and the worry, and—good
Heavens! was this what he had promised
her; was this the courage on which he had
prided himself, and which was to carry him
through the world! "Brava! brava! Oh,
thank you so very much, Lady Caroline.
Mayn't we hope for another? Thanks, so
much!" The song was over; the singer
had left the piano. He caught one glance
as he bowed and murmured his thanks.
He could not stand it any longer, his
thoughts had completely unmanned him,
and he longed for solitude. If it were
rude to leave the party he must brave even
Lady Hetherington's wrath, but he would
try and get away unobserved. Now, while
the hum of admiration was still going on,
and while people were gathering round
Lady Caroline, was the opportunity. He
availed himself of it, slipped away
unperceived, and hurried to his own room.

He closed the door behind him, turned
the key, and flung himself on to the bed, in
the dark. He felt that he could contain
himself no longer, and now that he was
alone and unseen, there was no further
reason to restrain the tears which had been
welling into his eyes, and now flowed
unchecked down his cheeks. He was a man
of nervous temperament, highly-wrought
susceptibilities, and acute sympathies, which
had been over-excited during the evening
by the story of Tom Creswell's death, his
own recollections of his past life, and the
weird thought-compelling power of Lady
Caroline's music. There was no special
occasion for these tears; he knew nothing
had happened to Marian, nothing—no,
nothing had happened calculated in any
way to interpose any—any barrier between
them; his position was pleasant, his