“I have not. I don’t know. I have had a pain in the head and two fits, and I dare say the next will carry me off. The doctors won’t tell me anything about it, so I suppose it is serious.” “Nonsense!” cried Lavender. “Serious! To look at you one would say you never had been ill in your life.” “Don’t tell stories, Frank Lavender. I know I look like a corpse, but I don’t mind it, for I avoid the looking-glass, and keep the spectacle for my friends. I expect the next fit will kill me.” “I’ll tell you what it is, Aunt Lavender, if you would only get up and come with us for a drive in the Park, you would find there was nothing of an invalid about you; and we should take you home to a quiet dinner at Notting Hill, and Sheila would sing to you all the evening, and to-morrow you would receive the doctors in state in your drawing-rooms, and tell them you were going for a month to Malvern.” “Your husband has a fine imagination, my dear,” said Mrs. Lavender to Sheila. “It is a pity he puts it to no use. Now I shall let both of you go. Three breathing in this room are too many for the cubic feet of air it contains. Frank, bring over those scales and put them on the table, and send Paterson to me as you go out.” And so they went down stairs and out of the house. Just as they stood on the steps, looking for a hansom, a young lad came forward and shook hands with Lavender, glancing nervously at Sheila. “Well, Mosenberg,” said Lavender, “you’ve come back from Leipsic at last? We got your card when we came home this morning from Brighton. Let me introduce you to my wife.” The boy looked at the beautiful face before him with something of a distant wonder and reverence in his regard. Sheila had heard of the lad before--of the Mendelssohn that was to be--and liked his appearance at first sight. He was a rather handsome boy of fourteen or fifteen, of the fair Jew type, with large, dark, expressive eyes, and long, wavy, light-brown hair. He spoke English fluently and well; his slight German accent was, indeed, scarcely so distinct as Sheila’s Highland one, the chief peculiarity of his speaking being a preference for short sentences, as if he were afraid to venture upon elaborate English. He had not addressed a dozen sentences to Sheila before she had begun to have a liking for the lad, perhaps on account of his soft and musical voice, perhaps on account of the respectful and almost wondering admiration that dwelt in his eyes. He spoke to her as if she were some saint, who had but to smile to charm and bewilder the humble worshipper at her shrine. “I was intending to call upon Mrs. Lavender, madame,” he said. “I heard that she was ill. Perhaps you can tell me if she is better.” “She seems to be very well to-day, and in very good spirits,” Sheila answered. “Then I will not go in. Did you propose to take a walk in the Park, madame?”