"And I am very glad you are here," I answered, looking up into her frank face, and feeling that I had got a trusty friend. Marian was a large woman, a little heavily-built, perhaps, but comfortable, and pleasant to look upon. She was not pretty, but hers was one of those good faces which always attract you wherever you meet them. If you had been in a land of strangers, you would have turned instinctively to that face in your hour of need. The very clasp of her hand had comfort in it; it was a firm hand, not small and fragile like mine. "How the old days come back!" she said, smiling down at me after a little pause. "You still have your wistful eyes, Louise; and your pretty brown hair is as bright as ever. What a confiding child you were, and how you always clung to me if you fancied yourself in any difficulty or danger! It seems strange for us two to be sitting here in a London room, doesn't it? Last time we sat together we were in the parlour in the dear old cottage; it was summer, the doors and windows were open, and every breeze brought in a shower of jessamine petals and scattered them over the floor. Your grandfather was pacing up and down his favourite path in the garden; and you were repeating some poem that had pleased you. When you liked verses, you always wanted me to set them to music, and sing them." "Oh! Marian, do you ever sing now?" I cried. "And your dear old guitar—have you got it still?" "Yes, I have never parted with it. Why, Louie, you have a guitar here! Is it yours?" "No; that is Ronald's. Ah, Marian, how I should like to hear you sing again! Can't you remember any of your old songs? Sing one of Moore's—something sweet and old-fashioned—I am so tired of all our ballads of to-day. There should not be too many deep thoughts in verses that are written for music. A little sentiment—a little pathos—a dash of hope—that is all that we want to sing about. There are poems that are inscribed on our hearts with the point of a diamond, but we do not care to sing them." While I rambled on, Marian was running her fingers over the strings; and suddenly I paused and started. She was playing that strange, soft melody that Ronald had played so often; and into her eyes there stole that musing look which always came into his, whenever he played this air. "What is that?" I asked, eagerly. "Ronald plays it sometimes, but he never can think where he first heard it." "I am trying to remember," she answered in a thoughtful tone. The air was repeated; sweet and tender and gay, it seemed to charm Marian just as it had charmed us. She stopped at last with a baffled expression on her face. "There are words set to that air," she said, "but I cannot recall them now. Who was it that ever played and sung this melody to me? I wish I knew." "That is what Ronald is always saying," I remarked. And then I told her the story of poor Monsieur Léon, and the way in which the guitar had come into our hands.