us half-wakefulness, as dreamily, as
tenderly, as the croon of rain on the roof soothes a child to
sleep. Under the artist's cunning touch the instrument was both the
accompaniment and the song; and Miss Betty, at first taking the music
to be a wandering thread in the fabric of her own bright dreams, drifted
gradually to consciousness to find herself smiling. Her eyes opened
wide, but half closed again with the ineffable sweetness of the sound.

Then a voice was heard, eerily low, yet gallant and clear, a vibrant
baritone, singing to the guitar.

"My lady's hair, That dark delight, Is both as fair And dusk as night.
I know some lovelorn hearts that beat In time to moonbeam twinklings
fleet, That dance and glance like jewels there, Emblazoning the raven
hair!

"Ah, raven hair! So dark and bright, What loves lie there Enmeshed,
to-night? I know some sighing lads that say Their hearts were snared and
torn away; And now as pearls one fate they share, Entangled in the raven
hair.

"Ah, raven hair, From such a plight Could you not spare One acolyte? I
know a broken heart that went To serve you but as ornament. Alas! a ruby
now you wear, Ensanguining the raven hair!"

The song had grown fainter and fainter, the singer moving away as he
sang, and the last lines were almost inaudible in the distance The
guitar could be heard for a moment or two more, then silence came again.
It was broken by a rustling in the room next to Miss Betty's, and Mrs.
Tanberry called softly through the open door:

"Princess, are you awake? Did you hear that serenade?"

After a pause the answer came hesitatingly in a small, faltering voice:
"Yes--if it was one. I thought perhaps he was only singing as he passed
along the street."

"Aha!" ejaculated Mrs. Tanberry, abruptly, as though she had made an
unexpected discovery. "You knew better; and this was a serenade that
you did not laugh at. Beautiful, I wouldn't let it go any farther, even
while your father is gone. Something might occur that would bring him
home without warning--such things have happened. Tom Vanrevel ought to
be kept far away from this house."

"Oh, it was not he," returned Miss Betty, quickly. "It was Mr. Gray.
Didn't you--"

"My dear," interrupted the other, "Crailey Gray's specialty is talking.
Most of the vagabonds can sing and play a bit, and so can Crailey,
particularly when he's had a few bowls of punch; but when Tom Vanrevel
touches the guitar and lifts up his voice