Sir Harold never forgot those words, and they rang in his ears, the requiem of all his dead hopes! “Has the kind signor loved one who is frail?” the girl whispered, softly. “Once more sing to me,” was his reply, and the man at the harmonium played the prelude, glad to have so generous a patron, though he occasionally cast uneasy glances toward his daughter. Sir Harold was rudely awakened from the spell that the youthful singer had cast about him by the metallic tones of his cousin, Margaret Nugent, who had entered the room unobserved. “My dear Harold,” she was saying. “What is the meaning of this _extempore_ concert? What a sweet voice the girl has!” The baronet turned as the musicians went away, the girl casting back at him pitying glances from her liquid black eyes. “And pretty, too, is she not?” continued Margaret. “Why, goodness, Harold! What is wrong with you? Is it the old story--the first quarrel?” “Do not jest, Margaret,” Sir Harold groaned. “I know that, in a measure, you have been Lady Elaine’s confidante, but I will add to all else that you may know that everything is at an end between us, and that you have just arrived here in time to say good-by.” She glanced at him sympathetically, and replied: “My poor Harold, I am sorry, but I am not surprised. Lady Elaine is young and thoughtless. Such love as yours she does not understand. Must we part with you?” In her heart she thought: “And the sooner he goes the better, lest that meddlesome Colonel Greyson will take it into his head to come here again. A few months will suffice to efface her from his heart, and then----” “I will not inflict myself upon you now, Harold,” she went on, “but you will let us know--mamma and me--where you are going to--how you are progressing? I do not like this sort of thing, but it is not altogether a surprise for me. For goodness’ sake, don’t worry yourself to death! How could I bear that? There is at least one who cares for you disinterestedly.” She dropped her eyes, conscious that they were burning with all the passion of her intense nature. “Yes, Margaret,” Sir Harold said, sadly, “you have ever been a dear, dear sister to me, and I think that I esteem you now more than at any other time. I have met with a severe shock, a disappointment which no words can describe. I hate my home, my country even, and shall again become a wanderer in strange lands, until the edge of my grief is blunted.” “But you must write to us, Harold”--there was real pain in her voice--“you must write to us, and I am sure that you will be glad to come home again to those who really care for you!” “Some day I may, Margaret, but it may not be for years! I leave to-night!” She wept a little, then pressed his fingers in parting, and he was grateful for her womanly sympathy. CHAPTER VII. SIR HAROLD’S DEPARTURE.