oble in men."

"Very few have," said Mr. Carlisle dryly.

"But you do not agree with him?"

"Not in these two instances. I have a living confutation at my side."

"Her accent is not perfect by any means," said Lady Rythdale.

"You are right, madam," said Eleanor, with a moment's hesitation and a
little colour. "I had good advantages at school, but I did not avail
myself of them fully."

"I know whose temper is perfect," said Mr. Carlisle, drawing the book
from her hand and whispering, "Do you want to see the flowers?"

He was not pleased, Eleanor saw; he carried her off to the conservatory
and walked about with her there, watching her pleasure. She wished she
could have been alone. The flowers were quite a different society from
Lady Rythdale's, and drew off her thoughts into a different channel.
The roses looked sweetness at her; the Dendrobium shone in purity;
myrtles and ferns and some exquisite foreign plants that she knew not
by name, were the very prime of elegant refinement and refreshing
suggestion. Eleanor plucked a geranium leaf and bruised it and thoughts
together under her finger. Mr. Carlisle was called in and for a moment
she was left to herself. When he came back his first action was to
gather a very superb rose and fasten it in her hair. Eleanor tried to
arrest his hand, but he prevented her.

"I do not like it, Macintosh. Lady Rythdale does not know me. Do not
adorn me here!"

"Your appearance here is my affair," said he coolly. "Eleanor, I have a
request to make. My mother would like to hear you sing."

"Sing! I am afraid I should not please Lady Rythdale."

"Will you please me?"

Eleanor quitted his hand and went to the door of communication with the
red parlour, which was by two or three steps, on which she sat down.
Her eyes were on the floor, where the object they encountered was Mr.
Carlisle's spurs. That would not do; she buried them in the depths of a
wonderful white lily, and so sang the old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
And so sweet and pure, so natural and wild, was her giving of the wild
old song, as if it could have come out of the throat of the flower. The
thrill of her voice was as a leaf trembles on its stem. No art there;
it was unadulterated nature. A very delicious voice had been spoiled by
no master; the soul of the singer rendered the soul of the song. The
listeners did both of them, to do them justice, hold their breath till
she had done. Then Mr. Carlisle brought her