t up this desultory talk all tea-time. She spoke with
great animation about her brother, and I could hardly believe it was the
same girl who had sat so silently at the head of the table that evening
at Gladwyn. The sad abstracted look had left her face. It seemed as
though for a little while she was determined to forget her troubles.

When Mrs. Barton had taken away the tea-tray, she asked me, with the same
wistful look in her eyes, to sing to her if I were not tired, and I
complied at once.

I sang for nearly half an hour, and then I returned to the fireside. I
saw that Miss Hamilton put up her hand to shield her face from the light;
but I took no notice, and after a little while she began to talk.

'I never heard any singing like yours, Miss Garston; it is a great gift.
There is something different in your voice from any one else's: it seems
to touch one's heart.'

'If my singing always makes you sad, Miss Hamilton, it is a very dubious
gift.'

'Ah, but it is a pleasant sadness,' she replied quickly. 'I feel as
though some kind friend were sympathising with me when you sing: it tells
me too that, like myself, you have known trouble.'

I sighed as I looked at Charlie's picture. Her eyes followed my glance,
and I saw again that tremulous motion of her hands.

'Yes, I know,' she said hurriedly; but her beautiful eyes were full of
tears. 'I have always been so sorry for you. You must feel so lonely
without him.'

The intense sympathy with which she said these few words seemed to break
down my reserve. In a moment I had forgotten that we were strangers, as I
told her about my love for Charlie, and the dear old life at the rectory.

It was impossible to doubt the interest with which she listened to me. If
I paused for an instant, she begged me very gently to tell her more about
myself; she was so sorry for me; but it did her good to hear me.

When I spoke of the life at Hyde Park Gate, and told her how little I was
fitted for that sort of existence, she put down her shielding hand, and
looked at me with strange wistfulness.

'No, you are too real, too much in earnest, to be satisfied with that
sort of life. Mr. Cunliffe used to tell us so. And I seemed to understand
it all before I saw you. I always felt as though I knew you, even before
we met. I hope,' hesitating a little, 'that we shall see a great deal of
you. I know Giles wishes it.'

'You cannot come here too often, Miss Hamilton. It will always be such a