The girl started, dismayed, alarmed, yet unwilling to be unkind to the poor recluse, while she hoped that decorum and propriety would put the visit out of the question. She replied that she would ask Mrs. Aylward whether she might, and Jumbo followed her to the still-room, saying on the way, “Mas’r heard Miss Delavie sing. He always has the window opened to hear her. It makes him hum the air--be merry. He has not asked to speak with lady since he heard the bad news--long, long, ago.” Then Aurelia felt that nothing short of absolute impropriety ought to make her gratify her shrinking reluctance. Mrs. Aylward seemed to think her doubts uncalled for, and attributed her hesitation to fear of the dark room. “Oh, no I am not so childish,” said the young lady with nervous dignity; “but would it be proper?” “Bless me, madam, he is as old as your father, and as civil a gentleman as lives. I would come in with you but that I am expecting Mr. Potts with the tallies. You need have no scruples.” There was no excuse nor escape, and Aurelia followed the negro in trepidation. Crossing the hall, he opened for her the door of the lobby corresponding to her own, and saying, “Allow me, ma’am,” passed before her, and she heard another door unclosed, and a curtain withdrawn. Beyond she only saw a gulf of darkness, but out of it came a deep manly voice, subdued and melancholy, but gentlemanlike and deferential. “The young lady is so kind as to come and cheer the old hermit. A thousand thanks, madam. Permit me.” Aurelia’s hand was taken by one soft for want of use, and she was led forward on a deep piled carpet, and carefully placed on a chair in the midst of the intense black darkness. There was a little movement and then the voice said, “I am most sensible of your goodness, madam.” “I--I am glad. You are very good, sir,” murmured Aurelia, oppressed by the gloom and the peculiar atmosphere, cool--for the windows were open behind the shutters--but strangely fragrant. “How does my excellent friend, Major Delavie?” “I thank you, sir, he is well, though his wound troubles him from time to time.” “Commend me to him when you write, if you are good enough to remember it.” “I thank you, sir. He will be rejoiced to hear of you.” “He does me too much honour.” These conventionalities being exhausted, a formidable pause ensued, first broken by Mr. Belamour, “May I ask how my fair visitor likes Bowstead?” “It is a fine place, sir.” “But somewhat lonely for so youthful a lady?” “I have the children, sir.” “I often hear their cheerful voices.” “I hope we do not disturb you, sir, I strive to restrain them, but I fear we are all thoughtless.” “Nay, the innocent sounds of mirth ring sweetly on my ears, like the notes of birds. And when I have heard a charming voice singing to the little ones, I have listened with delight. Would it be too presumptuous to beg the air songstress to repeat her song for the old recluse?”