s alive to-day. Never sits down at a Christian table when he is
alone. Housekeeper has to follow him round with plates of victuals, and
put them under his nose wherever he happens to stand still. Never sits
down, my brother Raymond. Like Shelley the poet in that respect--"

"Did Shelley never sit down?" asked Bell, innocently. "I never heard--"

"I--hum, ha!--alluded to the other peculiarity," said the Colonel.
"Shelley would stand--or sit--for hours, I have been told, with his
dinner under his nose, entirely unconscious of it. I have never believed
the story that he wrote a sonnet with a stalk of asparagus one day,
taking it for a pen. Was surprised, you understand, at finding nothing
on the paper. Ha!"

"Colonel Ferrers," said Hildegarde, gravely, "it is my belief that you
made up that story this very instant."

"Quite possible, my dear," said the Colonel, cheerfully. "Absence of
mind, you know--"

"Or presence!" said the girl, significantly. "I wonder why we are not to
hear about our Jack."

"Possibly, my love, because I do not intend to tell you," said the
Colonel, with his most beaming smile. "Did you say you would be so very
obliging as to sing 'Mary of Argyle' for me?"

And Hildegarde sang.

CHAPTER X.

_DIE EDLE MUSICA._

BELL MERRYWEATHER was sitting alone in the parlour at Braeside. She was
waiting for Hildegarde to finish some piece of work up-stairs before
going for a twilight walk. So waiting, she naturally drifted to the
piano, and, opening it, began to play.

[Illustration: DIE EDLE MUSICA.]

Bell might love her Greek and her botany, might delight, too, in rowing
and riding, and in all the out-door life that kept her strong, young
body in such perfect condition; but, after all, these things filled the
second and third place only in her life; her music was first, once and
always. All through school and college she had kept it up steadily,
seeking always the best instruction, loving always the best music; till
now, at eighteen, she was at once mistress and faithful servant of her
beloved art. Hildegarde played with taste and feeling, but she never
cared to touch the piano when she might listen to Bell instead; there
was all the difference in the world, and she knew it far better than
modest Bell herself. So when Hildegarde now, up-stairs, heard the firm,
light touch on the keys below, she nodded to herself, well pleased, and
went on with her work. "Such a treat for Mammina!" she said.