ring suspicion, like a struggling ray of sunlight
stealing through a torn and ragged cloud, breaking on Roland's mind that
if wealth were to entail a great many requirements, no matter how small
each, of obedience to the world's prescription, that he, for one, would
prefer his untrammelled freedom to any amount of riches. This was but a
fleeting doubt, which he had no time to dwell upon, for already he was
informed by the butler that Mrs. Kennyfeck was waiting breakfast for
him.

Descending the stairs rapidly, he had just reached the landing opposite
the drawing-room, when he heard the sounds of a guitar accompaniment,
and the sweet silvery tones of a female voice. He listened, and to his
amazement heard that the singer was endeavoring, and with considerable
success, too, to remember his own Mexican air that he had sung the
preceding evening.

Somehow, it struck him he had never thought the melody so pretty
before; there was a tenderness in the plaintive parts he could not have
conceived. Not so the singer; for after a few efforts to imitate one
of Roland's bolder passages, she drew her finger impatiently across
the chords, and exclaimed, "It is of no use; it is only the caballero
himself can do it."

"Let him teach you, then!" cried Cashel, as he sprang into the room,
wild with delight.

"Oh, Mr. Cashel, what a start you 've given me!" said Olivia Kennyfeck,
as, covered with blushes, and trembling with agitation, she leaned on
the back of a chair.

"Oh, pray forgive me," said he, eagerly; "but I was so surprised,
so delighted to hear you recalling that little song, I really forgot
everything else. Have I startled you, then?"

"Oh, no; it's nothing. I was trying a few chords. I thought I was quite
alone."

"But you'll permit me to teach you some of our Mexican songs, won't you?
I should be so charmed to hear them sung as you could sing them."

"It is too kind of you," said she, timidly; "but I am no musician. My
sister is a most skilful performer, but I really know nothing; a simple
ballad and a canzonette are the extent of my efforts."

"For our prairie songs, it is the feeling supplies all the character.
They are wild, fanciful things, with no higher pretensions than to
recall some trait of the land they belong to; and I should be so
flattered if you would take an interest in the Far West."

"How you must love it! How you must long to return to it!" said Olivia,
raising her long drooping lashes, and letti