but Kenelm caught glimpses of the room within. He could see that the
room, lit by a lamp on the centre table and candles elsewhere, was
decorated and fitted up with cost and in a taste not English. He could
see, for instance, that the ceiling was painted, and the walls were not
papered, but painted in panels between arabesque pilasters.

"They are foreigners," thought Kenelm, "though the man does speak
English so well. That accounts for playing euchre of a Sunday evening,
as if there were no harm in it. Euchre is an American game. The man
is called Fritz. Ah! I guess--Germans who have lived a good deal in
America; and the verse-maker said he was at Luscombe on pecuniary
business. Doubtless his host is a merchant, and the verse-maker in some
commercial firm. That accounts for his concealment of name, and fear of
its being known that he was addicted in his holiday to tastes and habits
so opposed to his calling."

While he was thus thinking, the lady had drawn her chair close to the
minstrel, and was speaking to him with evident earnestness, but in tones
too low for Kenelm to hear. Still it seemed to him, by her manner and by
the man's look, as if she were speaking in some sort of reproach,
which he sought to deprecate. Then he spoke, also in a whisper, and
she averted her face for a moment; then she held out her hand, and the
minstrel kissed it. Certainly, thus seen, the two might well be taken
for lovers; and the soft night, the fragrance of the flowers, silence
and solitude, stars and moon light, all girt them as with an atmosphere
of love. Presently the man rose and leaned over the balcony, propping
his cheek on his hand, and gazing on the river. The lady rose too,
and also leaned over the balustrade, her dark hair almost touching the
auburn locks of her companion.

Kenelm sighed. Was it from envy, from pity, from fear? I know not; but
he sighed.

After a brief pause, the lady said, still in low tones, but not too low
this time to escape Kenelm's fine sense of hearing,--

"Tell me those verses again. I must remember every word of them when you
are gone."

The man shook his head gently, and answered, but inaudibly.

"Do," said the lady; "set them to music later; and the next time you
come I will sing them. I have thought of a title for them."

"What?" asked the minstrel.

"Love's quarrel."

The minstrel turned his head, and their eyes met, and, in meeting,
lingered long. Then he moved away, and with face tur