“My best thanks are yours,” and her hand was taken, she was carefully conducted to the door and dismissed with a gentle pressure of her fingers, and a courteous: “Goodnight, madam; _Au revoir_, if I may venture to say so.” By contrast, the hall looked almost light, and Aurelia could see the skip of joy with which Jumbo hurried to fetch a candle. As he gave it to her, he made his teeth flash from ear to ear, as he exclaimed: “Pretty missy bring new life to mas’r!” Thus did a new element come into Aurelia’s life. She carefully prepared Harriet’s favourite song, a French _romance_, but Mr. Belamour did not like it equally well with the Nightingale, which he made her repeat, rewarding her by telling her of the charming looks and manners of her mother, so that she positively enjoyed her visit. The next night he made inquiries into her walks at Bowstead, asking after the favourite nooks of his childhood, and directing her to the glades where grew the largest dewberries and sweetest blackberries. This led to her recital of a portion of _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, for he drew her on with thanks at every pause: “I have enjoyed no such treat for many years,” he said. “There are other pieces that I can recite another time,” said Aurelia timidly. “You will confer a great favour on me,” he answered. So she refreshed her memory by a mental review of _Paradise Lost_ over her embroidery frame, and was ready with Adam’s morning hymn, which was much relished. Compliments on her elocution soon were turned by her into the praise of “sister,” and as she became more at ease, the strange man in the dark listened with evident delight to her pretty fresh prattle about sister and brother, and father and home. Thus it had become a daily custom that she should spend the time between half past seven and nine in the company of the prisoner of darkness, and she was beginning to look forward to it as the event of the day. She scarcely expected to be sent for on Sunday evening, but Jumbo came as usual with the invitation, and she was far from sorry to quit a worm-eaten Baxter’s _Saints’ Rest_ which she had dutifully borrowed from Mrs. Aylward. “Well, my fair visitor,” said the voice which had acquired a tone of pleased anticipation, “what mental repast has your goodness provided?” “It is Sunday, sir.” “Ah!” as if it had not occurred to him, and with some disappointment. “I could say the Psalms by heart, sir, if you would like it, for it is the 20th day of the month.” “Thank you. Your voice can make anything sweet.” Aurelia was shocked, and knew that Betty would be more so, but she was too shy to do anything except to begin: “Praise thou the Lord, O my soul.” It was a fortunate thing that it was a Psalm of such evident beauty, for it fell less familiarly on his ear than her passages from the poets. At the end he said: “Yes, that is true poetry. Praise fits well with happy young lips. You have been to church?” “No, sir, Mr. Greaves does not come to-day.”