Lady Edith started, and a long, deep sigh broke from her as she clasped the blue-eyed boy more tightly to her breast. “Do you remember the pretty songs you used to sing then? I wish you would sing one now for little Alan,” continued Lord Stuart. “I will try,” Lady Edith answered; but her sweet voice trembled and she sighed deeply. At last she began to sing falteringly, and Thea, who had been half sunk in painful reverie, gave a violent start as the words fell on her ear: “‘Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me, Just once more before I go; Tell me that your heart will miss me As I wander to and fro. Let me feel the tender pressing Of your ruby lips to mine, With your dimpled hands caressing, And your snowy arms intwine. “‘Ah, Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me, Come and whisper sweet and low; Tell me that your heart will miss me As I wander to and fro. “‘Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me, We may never meet again; We may never roam together Down the dear old shady lane. Future years may bring us sorrow That our hearts but little know; Still of care we should not borrow-- Come and kiss me ere I go. “‘Ah, Little Sweetheart, come and kiss me, Whisper to me sweet and low; Tell me that your heart will miss me As I wander to and fro.’” Lord Stuart’s eyes had never left Thea’s pale, startled face although he pretended to be looking over an evening paper. He saw that the lovely girl was struggling with some deep, overmastering agitation. Her lips were parted eagerly, her cheeks pale, her dilated blue eyes were fixed on Lady Edith with an expression of wistful yearning, and the small white hands clasped each other tightly upon her knee. Lady Edith did not see the uncontrollable emotion of her young friend. She was singing with her eyes closed, but tears were stealing down her pale cheeks. She held little Alan tightly clasped to her breast, and perhaps in fancy she was back in the long ago, clasping to her heart the child long dead. Her brother, watching her with deep emotion, felt that it was so. Once Thea started from her chair with outstretched arms and a yearning gesture, as if she would throw herself at the singer’s feet; but she caught Lord Stuart’s glance and shrunk back. “What is it, dear child?” he whispered, drawing near. She clung to him with both hands, and her face seemed irradiated with supernal light, it grew so tender. “Her face, her voice, her song--they are like my lost mother’s. They go to my heart!” she murmured. Then the half smile faded, and she sunk back into her chair, weeping silently. She had suddenly remembered Norman’s sensitive shrinking from the thought of strangers knowing her sad story. She must not confide to Lord Stuart her bitter cause for tears. CHAPTER LXX.