It was late that evening when Ferrers arrived at his uncle’s villa. He found Mrs. Templeton in the drawing-room seated at the piano. He entered gently; she did not hear him, and continued at the instrument. Her voice was so sweet and rich, her taste so pure, that Ferrers, who was a good judge of music, stood in delighted surprise. Often as he had now been a visitor, even an inmate, at the house, he had never before heard Mrs. Templeton play any but sacred airs, and this was one of the popular songs of sentiment. He perceived that her feeling at last overpowered her voice, and she paused abruptly, and turning round, her face was so eloquent of emotion, that Ferrers was forcibly struck by its expression. He was not a man apt to feel curiosity for anything not immediately concerning himself; but he did feel curious about this melancholy and beautiful woman. There was in her usual aspect that inexpressible look of profound resignation which betokens a lasting remembrance of a bitter past: a prematurely blighted heart spoke in her eyes, in her smile, her languid and joyless step. But she performed the routine of her quiet duties with a calm and conscientious regularity which showed that grief rather depressed than disturbed her thoughts. If her burden were heavy, custom seemed to have reconciled her to bear it without repining; and the emotion which Ferrers now traced in her soft and harmonious features was of a nature he had only once witnessed before--viz., on the first night he had seen her, when poetry, which is the key of memory, had evidently opened a chamber haunted by mournful and troubled ghosts. “Ah! dear madam,” said Ferrers, advancing, as he found himself discovered, “I trust I do not disturb you. My visit is unseasonable; but my uncle--where is he?” “He has been in town all the morning; he said he should dine out, and I now expect him every minute.” “You have been endeavouring to charm away the sense of his absence. Dare I ask you to continue to play? It is seldom that I hear a voice so sweet and skill so consummate. You must have been instructed by the best Italian masters.” “No,” said Mrs. Templeton, with a very slight colour in her delicate cheek, “I learned young, and of one who loved music and felt it; but who was not a foreigner.” “Will you sing me that song again?--you give the words a beauty I never discovered in them; yet they (as well as the music itself), are by my poor friend whom Mr. Templeton does not like--Maltravers.” “Are they his also?” said Mrs. Templeton, with emotion; “it is strange I did not know it. I heard the air in the streets, and it struck me much. I inquired the name of the song and bought it--it is very strange!” “What is strange?” “That there is a kind of language in your friend’s music and poetry which comes home to me, like words I have heard years ago! Is he young, this Mr. Maltravers?” “Yes, he is still young.” “And, and--”