and then to sing, hanging over the piano
meanwhile, and thrilling her with his apparent devotion and with the
melancholy which reminded her of the fate which threatened him. When she
had finished her song he said, "But you'll sing me one more, won't you?
I sha'n't have the chance again, you know." He looked down as he spoke
and struck the notes which haunted him. "Do you know what that is?" he
asked. "It has been going in my head all day, and I can't put a name to
it."

She tried it after him. "What _is_ it?" she said: "I ought to remember,"
and paused, finger on lip. Horace's eager eyes flashed upon hers, when
she suddenly exclaimed, "I know. It's one of Chappell's old songs;" and,
dashing her hands victoriously upon the keys, she sang "Love will find
out the way."

"Ah!" said Horace, and stood erect in a glow of passion and triumph. He
remembered himself enough to ask again for one more song, but when, with
a wistful tremor in her voice, she said, "This? you used to like this,"
he assented, without an idea what it was, and dropped into the nearest
arm-chair to ponder Lottie's message. He was quite unconscious that the
girl at his side was singing "O Fair Dove! O Fond Dove!" with an
earnestness of meaning, a pathos and a power, which she never attained
before or since. But he was sorry when she stopped, for he had to come
out of a most wonderful castle in the air and say "Thank you." When she
went away he looked vaguely at her and let her hand fall, as was only
natural. How we listen for the postman when we are longing for a letter
and sick with hope deferred! But who thinks of him when he has dropped
it into the box and is going down the street? Horace felt almost sure as
he said good-bye that Love _had_ found out the way.

And his next note sent Lottie to her mother.

Mrs. Blake was utterly confounded when her younger daughter announced
that she was engaged to Horace Thorne. "It was no good saying anything,"
said Lottie frankly, "for his old wretch of a grandfather wouldn't think
we were good enough to marry into _his_ family, and I dare say he would
go and leave all his money to Percival if Horace thwarted him. So we
thought we would wait. People can't live _very_ much longer when they
are seventy-seven, can they? At least they do sometimes, I know," Lottie
added, pulling herself up. "You see them in the newspapers sometimes in
their ninety-eighth or ninety-seventh year, I've noticed lately. But I'm
sure it will