With the same meek obedience Miss Muir complied, and began a little Scotch melody, so sweet, so sad, that the girl’s eyes filled, and Mrs. Coventry looked for one of her many pocket-handkerchiefs. But suddenly the music ceased, for, with a vain attempt to support herself, the singer slid from her seat and lay before the startled listeners, as white and rigid as if struck with death. Edward caught her up, and, ordering his brother off the couch, laid her there, while Bella chafed her hands, and her mother rang for her maid. Lucia bathed the poor girl’s temples, and Gerald, with unwonted energy, brought a glass of wine. Soon Miss Muir’s lips trembled, she sighed, then murmured, tenderly, with a pretty Scotch accent, as if wandering in the past, “Bide wi’ me, Mither, I’m sae sick an sad here all alone.” “Take a sip of this, and it will do you good, my dear,” said Mrs. Coventry, quite touched by the plaintive words. The strange voice seemed to recall her. She sat up, looked about her, a little wildly, for a moment, then collected herself and said, with a pathetic look and tone, “Pardon me. I have been on my feet all day, and, in my eagerness to keep my appointment, I forgot to eat since morning. I’m better now; shall I finish the song?” “By no means. Come and have some tea,” said Bella, full of pity and remorse. “Scene first, very well done,” whispered Gerald to his cousin. Miss Muir was just before them, apparently listening to Mrs. Coventry’s remarks upon fainting fits; but she heard, and looked over her shoulders with a gesture like Rachel. Her eyes were gray, but at that instant they seemed black with some strong emotion of anger, pride, or defiance. A curious smile passed over her face as she bowed, and said in her penetrating voice, “Thanks. The last scene shall be still better.” Young Coventry was a cool, indolent man, seldom conscious of any emotion, any passion, pleasurable or otherwise; but at the look, the tone of the governess, he experienced a new sensation, indefinable, yet strong. He colored and, for the first time in his life, looked abashed. Lucia saw it, and hated Miss Muir with a sudden hatred; for, in all the years she had passed with her cousin, no look or word of hers had possessed such power. Coventry was himself again in an instant, with no trace of that passing change, but a look of interest in his usually dreamy eyes, and a touch of anger in his sarcastic voice. “What a melodramatic young lady! I shall go tomorrow.”