Two young ladies, sisters, went to the piano to give Miss Fountain an opportunity of dancing. She danced quadrilles with four or five gentlemen, including her special admirers. She declined to waltz: “I have a little headache; nothing to speak of.” She then sat down to the piano again. “I can play alone, Mr. Dodd; you have not danced at all.” “I am not in the humor.” “Very well.” This time they played some of the tunes they had rehearsed together that happy evening, and David's lip quivered. Lucy eyed him unobserved. “Was this wise--to subject yourself to this?” “I must obey orders, whatever it costs me--'ri tum ti tum ti tum ti tum.'” “Who ordered you to neglect my advice?--'ri tum tum tum.'” _“You_ did--'ri tum ti tum tiddy iddy.'” A look of silent disdain: “Ri tum, ti tum, tiddy iddy.” (Ah! perdona for relating things as they happen, and not as your grand writers pretend they happen.) Between the quadrilles she asked an explanation. “Your aunt met me with my bag in my hand, and told me you wanted me to play to the company.” When he said this, David heard a sound like the click of a trigger. He looked up; it was Lucy clinching her teeth convulsively. But time was up: the woman of the world must go on like the prizefighter. The couples were waiting. “Ri tum ti tum ti tum ti tum tiddy iddy.” For all that, she did not finish the tune. In the middle of it she said to David, “'Ri tum ti tum--' can you get through this without me?--'ri tum.'” “If I can get through life without you, I can surely get through this twaddle: 'ri tum ti tum ti tum ti tum tiddy iddy.'” Lucy started from her seat, leaving David plowing solo. She started from her seat and stood a moment, looking like an angel stung by vipers. Her eye went all round the room in one moment in search of some one to blight. It surprised Mr. Hardie and Mrs. Bazalgette sitting together and casting ironical glances pianoward: “So she has been betraying to Mr. Hardie the secret she gained by listening,” thought Lucy. The pair were probably enjoying David's mortification, his misery. She walked very slowly down the room to this couple. She looked them long and full in the face with that confronting yet overlooking glance which women of the world can command on great occasions. It fell, and pressed on them both like lead, they could not have told you why. They looked at one another ruefully when she had passed them, and then their eyes followed her. They saw her walk straight up to her uncle, and sit down by him, and take his hand. They exchanged another uneasy look. “Uncle,” said Lucy, speaking very quickly, “you are unhappy. I am the cause. I am come to say that I promise you not to marry anyone my aunt shall propose to me.” “My dear girl, then you won't marry that shopkeeper there?” “What need of names, still less of epithets? I will marry no friend of hers.” “Ah! now you are my brother's daughter again.” “No, I love you no better than I did this morning; but the--”