“Well, I used to get my fiddle, and think of you so far away, and sweet sad airs came to my heart, and from my heart they passed into the fiddle. Now and then one seemed more worthy of you than the rest were, and then I kept that one.” “You mean you took the notes down,” said Lucy coldly. “Oh no, there was no need; I wrote it in my head and in my heart. May I play you another of your tunes? I call them your tunes.” Lucy blushed faintly, and fixed her eyes on the ground. She gave a slight signal of assent, and David played a melody. “It is very beautiful,” said she in a low voice. “Play it again. Can you play it as we walk?” “Oh yes.” He played it again. They drew near the hall door. She looked up a moment, and then demurely down again. “Now will you be so good as to play the first one twice?” She listened with her eyelashes drooping. “Tweedle dee! tweedle dum! tweedle dee.” “And _now_ we will go into breakfast,” cried Lucy, with sudden airy cheerfulness, and, almost with the word, she darted up the steps, and entered the house without even looking to see whether David followed or what became of him. He stood gazing through the open door at her as she glided across the hall, swift and elastic, yet serpentine, and graceful and stately as Juno at nineteen. “Et vera iucessu patuit lady.” These Junones, severe in youthful beauty, fill us Davids with irrational awe; but, the next moment, they are treated like small children by the very first matron they meet; they resign their judgment at once to hers, and bow their wills to her lightest word with a slavish meanness. Creation's unmarried lords, realize your true position--girls govern you, and wives govern girls. Mrs. Bazalgette, on Lucy's entrance, ran a critical eye over her, and scolded her like a six-year-old for walking in thin shoes. “Only on the gravel, aunt,” said the divine slave, submissively. “No matter; it rained last night. I heard it patter. You want to be laid up, I suppose.” “I will put on thicker ones in future, dear aunt,” murmured the celestial serf. Now Mrs. Bazalgette did not really care a button whether the servile angel wore thick soles or thin. She was cross about something a mile off that. As soon as she had vented her ill humor on a sham cause, she could come to its real cause good-temperedly. “And, Lucy, love, do manage better about Mr. Dodd.” Lucy turned scarlet. Luckily, Mrs. Bazalgette was evading her niece's eye, so did not see her telltale cheek. “He was quite thrown out last night; and really, as he does not ride with us, it is too bad to neglect him in-doors.” “Oh, excuse me, aunt, Mr. Dodd is your protege. You did not even tell me you were going to invite him.” “I beg your pardon, that I certainly did. Poor fellow, he was out of spirits last night.” “Well, but, aunt, surely you can put an admirer in good spirits when you think proper,” said Lucy slyly.