nto the circle, and presently we beheld
Annie's guardian, with Annie leaning on his arm, exchange a few words
with her in an undertone, as she passed them to an inner room.

'Who is that pleasing-looking old gentleman?' said we to our hostess;
'and what is the name of the lady in gray, who went away just as you
came up? That is Annie Mortimer we know, and we know also that she
isn't engaged!'

Cousin Con laughed heartily as she replied: 'That nice old gentleman
is Mr Worthington, our poor curate; and a poor curate he is likely
ever to continue, so far as we can see. The lady in gray we call our
"little gray gossip," and a darling she is! As to Annie, you seem to
know all about her. I suppose little Bessie has been lauding her up to
the skies.'

'Who is little Bessie?' we inquired.

'Little Bessie is your little gray gossip: we never call her anything
but Bessie to her face; she is a harmless little old maid. But come
this way: Bessie is going to sing, for they won't let her rest till
she complies; and Bessie singing, and Bessie talking, are widely
different creatures.'

Widely different indeed! Could this be the little gray lady seated at
the piano, and making it speak? while her thrilling tones, as she sang
of 'days gone by,' went straight to each listener's heart, she herself
looking ten years younger! When the song was over, I observed Mr
Worthington, with Annie still resting on his arm, in a corner of the
apartment, shaded by a projecting piece of furniture; and I also noted
the tear on his furrowed cheek, which he hastily brushed away, and
stooped to answer some remark of Annie's, who, with fond affection,
had evidently observed it too, endeavouring to dispel the painful
illusion which remembrances of days gone by occasioned.

We at length found the company separating, and our wager still
unredeemed. The last to depart was Mr Worthington, escorting Annie
Mortimer and little Bessie, whom he shawled most tenderly, no doubt
because she was a poor forlorn little old maid, and sang so sweetly.

The next morning at breakfast, Cousin Con attacked us, supported by Mr
Danvers, both demanding a solution of the mystery, or the scented
sevens! After a vast deal of laughing, talking, and discussion, we
were obliged to confess ourselves beaten, for there had been an
engaged couple present on the previous evening, and we had failed to
discover them. No; it was not Annie Mortimer: she had no lover. No; it
was not the Miss