in the full light just before them; but during
the singing he was beckoned away and the spot was clear. In
two minutes more Stuart Nightingale had brought a camp chair
to Wych Hazel's side. He was quiet till the song was over and
the little gratified buzz of voices began. Under this cover he
spoke low--

'Have you _two_ guardians, Miss Kennedy?'

'One has answered all my purposes hitherto,' she answered with
a laugh. 'Do I seem to need another?'

'Seem to _have_ another. Pardon me. Do you like to be taken care
of?' He spoke in her own tone.

'By myself--best! If I must speak the truth.'

'Ah, I thought so! who else can do it so well? A fine woman
needs no other control than her own. Am I to be disappointed
of that ride?' He was speaking very softly.

'Well, I will prefer my request,' said Hazel. 'I wish I could
say yes, at once. But how shall I let you now?'

Prim's hand touched her shoulder at this instant, for
delicious notes of two voices stole upon the air from the
hiding place of Mrs. Powder's troup. The lady's voice they had
heard before; it was one of great power and training, and it
came now mingling with a sweet full bass voice. There was no
more talking until the music ended. It was a fine bit from a
German opera.

'How do you like that?' Stuart asked.

Hazel drew a deep breath. 'Can you tell how you like things?'
she said.

'Yes!' said Stuart. 'After we get that ride I am talking of,
I'll tell you how I liked it. By the way, I will do myself the
honour to be the receiver of your answer concerning it. But
_this_ pleasure--no,--yes, I _do_ know why I enjoy it; but it is not
because the voices are fine or the music expressive. Can you
guess?'

'_Not_ for the music, and _not_ for the voices!' said the girl
looking at him.

'A puzzle, isn't it?' said Stuart. 'No; the music expresses
nothing to me--this sort of music; and voices are voices--but--I
care only for voices that I know.'

Another little word of warning from Prim behind her,--'O Hazel,
listen!'--prevented any reply; and Stuart's 'Yes, this is
something, now,'--made it unnecessary. And the singing would
have made it impossible. A man's voice alone; the same rich,
full, sweet bass; in the ballad of the "Three Fishers."
Whether Mr. Nightingale had divined that somebody was near who
knew Wych Hazel, or merely acted on general prudential
motives, he left his seat and stood a little apart while the
ballad was sung.

'Do you like that?' P