They glided from one topic of conversation to another, scarcely knowing they were talking, with so little constraint did their words flow. What she said came so from her heart. Frank had heard the same things uttered, but there was an indefinable charm accompanied her every word, however commonplace the subject was. Music came up at length. Both her piano and harp were brought into requisition. Agnes played and sang well. Frank was an enthusiastic lover of music, and just what and all he loved did she play. Never sang so sweet a voice as hers. Music! dear Music! What nurse like thee will soothe the world-worn, weary soul? When we are sad and sullen, what will bring us to ourselves—to _hope_ again—like music? Soft, wild music. Bellini music! Agnes played, Frank listened. Agnes talked, Frank listened—his heart beat a young whirlwind. Time flew by unheeded—unmarked. Francis recollected himself before it was quite midnight, and rose to go. “I am so sorry William is not at home; you would like him. He is very much like you. He went this morning to the city, and will not be home till to-morrow.” “William!” “Yes. My husband.” “True. I had forgotten.” “But you will come again?” Frank smiled a _bon soir_, and went home feeling as he never felt before. He did not own to himself he was in _love_, but he _did_ own _she_ was a _most_ lovely creation. Clara rallied him next morning on his silence. “You seem but moody, brother mine; what change has clouded the spirit of your dream?” “A spirit of beauty that ministered to my dreams last night.” “In what shape did it come?” “In the guise of a mermaid I suspect. Frank is very fond of such mysterious beings.” Edward laughed as he said it. Frank thought there was a little mischief in his cousin’s eye. “I don’t envy him his visitant,” said Cousin George. “Mermaids are cold creatures, I doubt if they have hearts.” Frank tried hard to enjoy the party at Beverly Hall, but his thoughts would wander to the cottage, and the afternoon found him again by the side of Agnes. Some part of every day at length saw him at the cottage; the little Nina learned to welcome him with a wild cry of delight. He always found some good excuse for going. Agnes was to sing him some new song, from some new opera—or he had promised Nina a ride on his pony—or he had not finished a discussion with the father upon some political question. Agnes had said right when she told Frank he would like her husband: he _did_ like him, and the husband liked Frank, and was as glad to see him as was either Agnes or Nina. Little did the husband and wife dream of the chain fastened and tightening around his heart—gnawing to that very heart’s core. He was in a dream—a nightmare. He would have given worlds to have been able to keep away from the cottage, from seeing Agnes, but the more he resisted the fascination the less could he overcome it, and the more often did he find himself at the cottage.