It was Mrs. Sinclair’s right to command, Edith’s business to obey, and without a word of dissent she sat down and played, with Godfrey on one side of her and the colonel on the other, both listening with rapt attention to her fine playing, and both admiring the soft, white hands which managed the keys so skilfully. “Edith, dear, sing that pathetic little thing, ‘I am sitting alone to-night, darling.’ You can surely manage that, it is written so low,” Mrs. Sinclair said: and rising from the couch where she had been reclining, she came into the music room, and explained to her brother: “Her voice is not strong and cannot reach the higher notes. She had a great fright when she was quite young, wasn’t it, Edith?” “Yes,” Edith answered faintly, as she felt the iron hand closing around her throat and shutting down all power to sing even the lowest note. “I don’t like sitting alone at night, darling. I’d rather have somebody with me, so give us your jolliest piece,” Godfrey said, making Edith laugh in spite of herself, and lifting the invisible hand, so that her voice came back again; and, at Mrs. Sinclair’s second request, she sang: “I am sitting alone to-night, darling, Alone in the dear old room; And the sound of the rain, As it falls on the pane, Makes darker the gathering gloom. “For I know that it falls on a grave, darling, A grave ’neath the evergreen shade, Where I laid you away, One bright autumn day, When the flowers were beginning to fade.” Oh, how soft and low and sweet was the voice which sang the song of which Abelard Lyle had been so fond, and there was almost a tear in Godfrey’s eye, and the colonel was beginning to look very grave, when the white hands suddenly stopped and fell with a crash among the keys, while Edith gasped, “I can’t finish it; the iron fingers are on my throat, just as they were that dreadful day.” She evidently did not quite know what she was saying, and her face was deathly pale. “You are sick, Miss Lyle; come into the air!” Colonel Schuyler said, and leading her out upon the veranda, he made her sit down, while Mrs. Sinclair brought her smelling salts, and Godfrey hovered about disconsolately, remembering the scene in the summer-house, and wondering if she had such spells often. And, having knocked his head against his father’s, when they both stooped to pick up Edith’s handkerchief, he concluded he was _de trop_, and walked away, saying to himself: “I do believe he is hit real hard. Wouldn’t it be fun to call that regal creature mother!”