which surged through Cicely's brain and fingers, out on the responsive air,--and when she ceased playing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe, which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation were afraid to break by a word or movement. And then, with a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had passed her small supple hands lightly again over the piano- keys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure silvery sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De Musset's 'Adieu, Suzon!' "Adieu, Suzon, ma rose blonde, Qui m'as aime pendant huit jours! Les plus courts plaisirs de ce monde Souvent font les meilleurs amours. Sais-je au moment ou je te quitte Ou m'entraine mon astre errant? Je m'en vais pourtant, ma petite, Bien loin, bien vite, Adieu, Suzon!" Was it possible for any man with a drop of warm blood flowing through his veins, not to feel a quicker heart-beat, a swifter pulse, at the entrancing, half-melancholy, half-mocking sweetness she infused into these lines? "Je pars, et sur ma levre ardente Brule encor ton dernier baiser. Entre mes bras, chere imprudente Ton beau front vient de reposer. Sens-tu mon coeur, comme il palpite? Le tien, comme il battait gaiment! Je m'en vais pourtant, ma petite, Bien loin, bien vite Tourjours t'aimant! Adieu, Suzon!" With the passion, fire and exquisite abandon of her singing of this verse in tones of such youthful freshness and fervour as could scarcely be equalled and never surpassed, Adderley could no longer restrain himself, and crying 'Brava!--brava! Bravissima!' fell to clapping his hands in the wildest ecstasy. Walden, less demonstrative, was far more moved. Something quite new and strange to his long fixed habit and temperament had insidiously crept over him,--and being well accustomed to self-analysis, he was conscious of the fact, and uneasy at finding himself in the grip of an emotion to which he could give no name. Therefore, he was glad when,--the music being ended, and when he had expressed his more or less incoherent praise and thanks to Cicely for the delight her wonderful gift had afforded him,--he could plead some business in the village as an excuse to take his departure. Maryllia very sweetly bade him come again. "As often as you like,"--she said--"And I want you to promise me one thing, Mr. Walden!--you must consent to meet some of my London friends here one evening to dinner." She had given him her hand in parting, and he was holding it in his own. "I'm afraid I should be very much in the way, Miss Vancourt,"--he replied, with a grave smile--"I am not a social acquisition by any means! I live very much alone,--and a solitary life, I think, suits me best." She looked at him thoughtfully, and withdrew her hand. "That means that you do not care to come,"--she said, simply--"I am so sorry you do not like me!"