"I shall sing to you some gay French chansons," said Coralie, "and we will leave the door open so that Clare may hear them." A few moments later and I was in an atmosphere of delight. The rich, sweet music rose and fell; it cheered me like strong wine. Then after a time its character changed; it was no longer gay, triumphant and mirthful. The very spirit of love and pathos seemed to breathe through it. My heart beat; every nerve thrilled; every sense answered to these sweet, soft words. It ceased then, and Coralie came over to the bay-window. She sat down upon the Turkish curtains, and looked with longing eyes at the light on the trees and flowers. There was a softened expression on her face, a flush as of awakened emotion, a new and brighter light in those dark, dangerous eyes. The white fingers trembled, the white bosom heaved as though she had felt deeply the words she had been singing. Then it was said she would rather be mistress of Crown Anstey than Queen of Great Britain. I laughed, not knowing what to say. "Crown Anstey ought to thank you very much," I said. "You pay it a great compliment." "My heart is here," she continued, those dreamy eyes still fixed upon mine. "I think if any one were to say to me, 'You must leave Crown Anstey,' I should die." All the music on earth seemed embodied in those few words. "I should die," she repeated, "just as a flower dies when it is torn from the soil it has taken deep root." "Why do you speak of such things?" I asked. "No one thinks of your going; this is your home." "In my happiest hours the fear lies heaviest upon me," she replied. "No one has ever spoken of my going, that is true; but I have common sense, and common sense tells me if certain events happen I must go." "What events do you mean?" I asked, all unconsciously. She sighed deeply. "If you were to be married, Sir Edgar--Cousin Edgar, I like to say best--then I must go." "I do not see the necessity." "Ah! you do not understand; women are all jealous. I have grown so accustomed to perform a hundred little services for you, they make the pleasure and sunshine of my life. To be able to do some little thing to help you is the highest earthly joy that I can ever know. When you are married, Sir Edgar, your wife will take all this happiness from me." "I do not see why," I replied, dryly, inwardly wishing myself safe in Clare's room. "Ah! you do not understand--men never can understand the love of women. Wives, above all, are so very jealous. Fancy, if ever I wanted to make your tea, or get anything ready for you, she would be angry, and I should be wretched." "In that case you must make tea for Clare instead of me." "If I am anywhere near you, I must always attend to you before every one and anything in the wide world," she said, impulsively. "You are making very sure that my wife will not like you," I said. "What if I have no wife?" She shook her head gravely.