“May I come to see you to-morrow?” he said, in eager tones, which, though low, were distinctly audible to Louis. “Yes,” replied Margaret at once, in a somewhat tremulous voice, “at eleven in the morning.” Then, taking her companion’s arm, she passed on. Louis had observed that the two did not shake hands, nor exchange any word of greeting. This hurried question and answer was all that passed between them. What had there been in a short, casual meeting like that to make the girl look pale and excited, as her companion saw by a furtive glance that she was? He could feel her hand tremble slightly when she first laid it within his arm, but the little, almost imperceptible flutter soon ceased, and she walked on very quiet and still. And so they took their way along the streets in silence. She did not seem inclined to talk, and he would not jar her by speaking. Margaret, as she mused upon this meeting, was blaming herself for the concession she had made, which was indeed attributable altogether to the music. “I have no resolution or power of resistance whatever, when I’m under the influence of music,” she said to herself, half angrily. “It takes away my moral accountability. I don’t believe the story of the sirens is a fable. A beautiful voice could draw me toward itself as truly as the pole draws the magnet. It is intense weakness. I ought to have told him No, and ended the matter at once.” Remembering that her companion would have reason to wonder at her silence, Margaret roused herself with an effort and made some comment on the service. “It was all very beautiful,” said Louis. “I felt it very much, and I feel very happy to have gone. That solo was exquisitely sung. The voice does not seem to be highly cultivated, but it was thrillingly sweet.” “It was Mr. Somers, the young man from Bassett, whose voice I have spoken to you of. He has just come to Washington, and I knew he would want to see me, so I named an hour when I was sure to be free.” When they had reached home and were going up the steps, they found Thomas opening the door for a colored servant-man, who had two small parcels in his hand. He took off his hat and stepped back as they came up, and Thomas said: “It is a parcel for Miss Trevennon.” Margaret turned and held out her hand for it. “Where from?” she said. “From the Arlington, Miss,” replied the man, in evident trepidation. “I’m very sorry, Miss, but there’s been a mistake. It was to have been sent this morning, but it has been such a busy day that it has been forgotten. Mr. Decourcy left particular orders, and I hope you’ll be kind enough to excuse the delay, Miss.” Margaret turned the parcel so as to get the light from the hall gas upon it. As she did so, her expression changed quickly. It was addressed to Mrs. Vere. “There is some mistake,” she said, coldly, with a certain high turn of the head that Louis knew. “This is not for me.”