She took her place at the tea-table, all smiles and sweetness; she glanced shyly at William; she captivated Mr. Arkell's heart; she caused Mrs. Arkell completely to forget the few words concerning Betsey which had so jarred upon her ear; and before that tea-drinking was over, they were all ready to fall in love with her. All, save one. Then she went round the room, a candle in her hand, and looked at the pictures; she freely said which of them she liked best; she sat down to the piano, unasked, and played a short, striking piece from memory. They asked her if she could sing; she answered by breaking into the charming old song "Robin Adair;" it was one of William Arkell's favourites, and he stood by enraptured, half bewildered with this pleasant inroad on their quiet routine of existence. "You play, I am sure," she suddenly said to him. He had no wish to deny it, and took his flute from its case. He was a finished player. It is an instrument very nearly forgotten now, but it never would have been forgotten had its players managed it as did William Arkell. They began trying duets together, and the evening passed insensibly. William loved music passionately, and could hardly tear himself away from it to run with Mildred home. "Well, Mildred, and how do you like her?" was Mrs. Dan's first question. "I--I can hardly tell," was the hesitating answer. "Not tell!" repeated Mrs. Dan; "you have surely found out whether she is pleasant or disagreeable?" "She is very pretty, and her manners are perfectly charming. But--still----" "Still, what?" said Mrs. Dan, wondering. "Well, mother--but you know I never like to speak ill of anyone--there is something in her that strikes me as not being _true_." CHAPTER IV. ROBERT CARR'S REQUEST. The time went on. The month for which Charlotte Travice had been invited had lengthened itself into nearly three, and December had come in.