She was to sing on the following evening. ‘If her child is worse, she will not appear,’ he thought. But when he called at the little shop that afternoon, he heard the child was somewhat better, and that she meant to sing. ‘There was some grapes came last night, sir, soon after you left,’ said the widow. ‘Was it you that sent them? Mrs. Bertram seemed so pleased. The poor little thing was parched with fever, and the grapes was such a comfort.’ ‘You didn’t say anything about me?’ said Geoffrey. ‘Not a syllable, sir.’ ‘That’s right. I’ll send more grapes. If there is anything else I can do, pray let me know. I’m such a stupid fellow. You may send me a dozen of those handkerchiefs,’—without looking at the fabric, which was about good enough for his groom. ‘I shall be so grateful to you if you can suggest anything that I could do for the little girl.’ ‘I don’t think there’s anything, sir. Her mar lets her want for nothing. But the grapes was a surprise. “I didn’t think there were any to be had,” Mrs. Bertram said. But perhaps she’d hardly go to the price, sir; for she doesn’t seem to be very well off.’ Pinched by poverty! What a pang the thought gave him! And he squandered his useless means without being able to purchase contentment. He had been happy enough, certainly, in his commonplace way, before he had seen her; but now that he had tasted the misery of loving her, he could not go back to that empty happiness—the joy of vulgar minds, which need only vulgar pleasures. He was in his seat in the front row when the concert began. Whatever musical faculty might be latent in his composition stood a fair chance of development nowadays, so patiently did he sit out pianoforte solos, concertante duets, trios for piano, violin, and ’cello; warblings, soprano and contralto, classical or modern; hearing all alike with the same callous ear till she appeared—a tall slim figure simply robed; a sad sweet face, full of a quiet pride that seemed to hold him aloof, yet with that fleeting look of love and pity in those tender eyes which seemed to draw him near. To-night that serious countenance was in his eyes supremely pathetic; for he knew her secret sorrow, knew that her heart was with her sick child. She sang one of the old familiar songs—nothing classical, only an old-fashioned English ballad, ‘She wore a wreath of roses,’ a simple sentimental story of love and sorrow. The plaintive notes moved many to tears, even the Stillmingtonites, who were not easily melted, being too eminently genteel for emotion. ‘Good heavens, what a fool she makes of me!’ thought Geoffrey; ‘I who never cared a straw for music.’ He waited near a little door at the back of the Assembly Rooms, by which he knew the concert people went in and out—waited until Mrs. Bertram emerged, one of the earliest. She was not alone. Her landlady’s daughter, the young woman in corkscrew ringlets, accompanied her. He followed them at a respectful distance, observed by neither.