‘Yes, I arranged with a fellow to meet me at home at eight, and it’s nearly that now.’ ‘I shall see you to-morrow?’ ‘I shall be busy in the day, but at night—yes, I’ll come and dine with you, Eleanor. What time?’ ‘Seven, Otho; but come as soon as you like, and I’ll invite Magdalen to spend the evening too.’ ‘Magdalen!’ He looked startled, as he had done on a former occasion, and not too well pleased. Then he said, with an attempt at indifference— ‘Oh, all right. That will be the best way.’ He departed, and as it was not too late, Eleanor sent a note by that night’s post, telling Miss Wynter that Otho was over, and would dine with her the following evening. Would she (Magdalen) join them and spend the evening? Magdalen sent a man the next day with her acceptance of the invitation, and Eleanor awaited her two guests with the feelings of one who is heroically going through a most disagreeable duty. It was the end of August, and on quiet, cloudy days it was twilight by seven o’clock. Just before that hour Eleanor had occasion to go into one of the front rooms;—her dining and drawing-rooms were at the back, looking upon a pleasant garden and orchard, and the front rooms were small ones, separated from these others by folding doors. She got what she wanted, and then paused for a moment beside the window, looking out upon the street, which was gray with the dusk, and the houses over the way did not show very clearly. No one was about except, as Eleanor noticed, a woman, whom she had seen earlier in the afternoon, in another part of the town; an itinerant singer, who had been going from door to door, singing ballads and collecting money. Eleanor had noticed her, and had been struck with the decency of her appearance, and the unusual quietness and modesty of her look. She had told her servants, if the young woman came to her house, to take her into the kitchen, and give her a meal. This had been done, and the girl now seemed not to intend to sing any more. She had been going about bareheaded; now she had put on a small straw bonnet, and placed a woollen shawl about her shoulders. She stood near the doorsteps, and looked this way and that, as if not certain in which direction to go. The window was open, and Eleanor was about to throw it still higher up, and suggest to the young woman where she might find a lodging for the night, when quick steps approached from that side of her own house at which she stood. Then a man’s figure, in a light summer overcoat and a round hat, appeared; it was Otho, and he had one foot on the doorstep, when the young woman turned, and began rather timidly—‘If you please, sir——’ ‘Good God! what do you mean!’ he exclaimed, in a voice in which both fear and anger struggled. ‘Have you no more——’ ‘Sir!’ exclaimed the young woman, facing him fully, and in evident astonishment, ‘I was not going to beg—I——’