But at last she did show both. It was in the evening, and she was at the piano; after one or two ballads he asked her to sing a little English song he had found among her music, not printed, but in manuscript. "Oh, that is nothing," she said, putting out her hand to take it from him. "I will sing this of Schumann's instead; it is much prettier." But he maintained his point. "I like this better," he said. "I like the name--of course it is impossible, but it is pleasant--'Semper Fidelis.'" She took it, looked at it in silence for a moment, and then, without further reply, began to sing. There was nothing remarkable in the words or the music; she did not sing as well as usual, either; she hurried the time. "SEMPER FIDELIS "Dumb and unchanged my thoughts still round thee hover, Nor will be moved; E'en though I strive, my heart remains thy lover, Though unbeloved; Yet there is sad content in loyalty, And, though the silent gift is naught to thee, It changes never-- Faithful forever." This was the verse; but at the fifth line she faltered, stopped, and then, rising abruptly, left the room. "Margaret is very uneven at times," said Miss Harrison, apologetically, from her easy-chair. "All interesting persons are uneven," he replied. He went over and took a seat beside his hostess, remaining half an hour longer; but as he went back to his hotel he said to himself that Miss Stowe had been for many weeks the most even woman he had ever known, showing neither variation nor shadow of turning. She had been as even as a straight line. On this account her sudden emotion made an impression upon him. The next day he mentioned that he was going to Trieste. "Not Venice?" said Miss Harrison. "I thought everybody went to Venice." "Venice," he replied, "is pre-eminently the place where one needs either an actual, tangible companionship of the dearest sort, or a memory like it. I, who have neither, keep well away from Venice!" "I rather think, Mr. Morgan, that you have had pretty much what you wanted, in Venice or elsewhere," said Miss Harrison, with a dry humor she sometimes showed. Here she was called from the room to see a poor woman whom she befriended; Miss Stowe and Morgan were left alone. He was looking at her; he was noting what effect, if any, the tidings of his departure (he had named to-morrow) would have upon her. She had not been conventional; would she resort to conventionality now? Her gaze was bent upon the floor; after a while she looked up. "Where shall you be this summer?" she said, slowly. "Perhaps we shall be there too." Her eyes were fixed upon his face, her tone was hardly above a whisper. Perhaps it was curiosity that made him do what he did; whether it was or not, mingled with it there was certainly a good deal of audacity. He rose, went to her, and took her hand. "Forgive me," he said; "I am in love with some one else."