open window.
They let the time pass easily, with pleasant talk and laughter.

Then they drove leisurely back in the afternoon. They passed along the
moorland ways, through rude little villages built of stone and by the
outskirts of level and cheerless farms, until they got into the
beautiful woods and avenues lying around Penzance. When they came in
sight of the broad bay they found that the world had changed its colors
since the morning. The sea was of a cold purplish gray, but all around
it, on the eastern horizon, there was a band of pale pink in the sky. On
the west again, behind Penzance, the warm hues of the sunset were
shining behind the black stems of the trees. The broad thoroughfare was
mostly in shadow, and the sea was so still that one could hear the
footsteps and the voices of the people walking up and down the Parade.

"I suppose I must go now," said the young gentleman when he had seen
them safely seated in the small parlor overlooking the bay. But he did
not seem anxious to go.

"But why?" Wenna said, rather timidly. "You have no engagement, Mr.
Trelyon. Would you care to stay and have dinner with us--such a dinner
as we can give you?"

"Well, to tell you the truth, I should like it very much," he said.

Mrs. Rosewarne, a little surprised, and yet glad to see Wenna enjoying
herself, regarded the whole affair with a gentle resignation. Wenna had
the gas lit and the blinds let down: then, as the evening was rather
cool, she had soon a bright fire burning in the grate. She helped to lay
the table. She produced such wines as they had. She made sundry visits
to the kitchen, and at length the banquet was ready.

What ailed the young man? He seemed beside himself with careless and
audacious mirth, and he made Mrs. Rosewarne laugh as she had not laughed
for years. It was in vain that Wenna assumed airs to rebuke his
rudeness. Nothing was sacred from his impertinence--not even the
offended majesty of her face. And at last she gave in too, and could
only revenge herself by saying things of him which, the more severe they
were, the more he seemed to enjoy. But after dinner she went to the
small piano, while her mother took a big easy-chair near the fire, and
he sat by the table, looking over some books. There was no more reckless
laughter then.

In ancient times--that is to say, in the half-forgotten days of our
youth--a species of song existed which exists no more. It was not as the
mournful ballads of the