(Uncle Bryan paused. Hitherto he had spoken in a cold and measured tone; when he resumed his story his voice was no longer passionless, and he did not seek to hold it in restraint.) As Mr. Glaive introduced me to his daughter I rose to go, and bowing to her and saying that I would see him again, was about to take my departure, when Miss Glaive said she hoped she had not frightened me away. Not her words, nor the effect of her appearance upon me, but her voice, arrested my steps; it was so exactly like the voice of the poor girl of whose last agony I had been the only witness, that I turned and looked steadily at her. There was no resemblance between them--my lost friend was dark, Miss Glaive was fair. 'You look at me,' said Miss Glaive, 'as if you knew me.' I managed to say that her voice reminded me of a dear friend. 'Dear!' Miss Glaive exclaimed archly; 'very dear?' 'Very dear,' I said gravely. 'A lady friend?' she asked, with smiles. 'She of whom I speak,' I said, 'was a woman.' 'Was!' echoed Miss Glaive. 'She is dead,' I explained. 'I am sorry,' said Miss Glaive very gently; 'I beg your pardon.' I was strangely stirred by her sympathising words. There was a little pause, and I moved again, towards the door, not wishing to leave, but finding no cause to stay. Again her voice arrested me. 'If you go now,' she said, 'I shall be quite sure that I _have_ frightened you away. Papa declares that no one makes tea like me; I tell him he knows nothing about it. Do you drink tea, Mr. Carey? You shall be the judge.' 'And after tea,' added Mr. Glaive with an observant look at me--he had grown calmer while his daughter and I were speaking--'Fanny will give us some music.' Miss Glaive did not ask for my verdict upon her tea-making, and soon sat down to the piano and played. In this quiet way an hour must have passed without a word being spoken. It was a new experience to me, and it took me out of myself as it were. The peaceful room, the presence of this graceful girl, and the sweet melodies she played, softly and dreamily, seemed to me to belong to another and a better world than that in which I was accustomed to move. It was strangely unreal and strangely beautiful. The music ceased, and Miss Glaive came to my side. 'Papa is asleep,' she whispered; 'we must be very quiet now.' There were books on the table, and I turned the leaves of one without any consciousness of what I was gazing upon. It did not occur to me that this was the proper time for me to leave; I was as a man enthralled. A movement made by the sleeping man (did he sleep? I have sometimes wondered in my jealous analysis of these small details) aroused me from my dream, and I wished Miss Glaive good-night. She accompanied me to the street-door. 'Papa is in trouble,' she said; are you going to assist him?' 'He has asked for my advice,' I replied.