“No, strange to say, I don't, my Lady; although but a moment ago it was on the tip of my tongue. It is something like Hathaway.” A trace of colour once more returns to my Lady's cheek, and her breath, which, by reason perhaps of the confined space in which she stands, has seemed to be stifled during the narration of her maid, now comes and goes with a little less of effort. “That is his voice, I reckon, my Lady--yes, I thought so--and the new carol which he has been teaching the choir.” O'er the hill and o'er the vale Come three kings together, Caring nought for snow and hail, Cold, and wind, and weather; Now on Persia's sandy plains, Now where Tigris swells with rains, They their camels tether. Now through Syrian lands they go, Now through Moab, faint and slow, Now o'er Edom's heather. “Ah, now I've got it, my Lady,” cried Mistress Forest triumphantly. “It isn't Hathaway. He's the man they were talking of in the servants-hall as has just bought the windmill of old Daniels, and that was how I confused them. The stranger's name is Derrick--a Mr Derrick.” My Lady's dimpled hand flew to her heart, and would have pressed against it had she had any strength to do so. Her limbs, however, were nerveless, and shook as if she had the ague. But for the window-seat, she must have dropped; and as it was, leaned, huddled up against it, a shapeless form, decked in gray satin and pearls indeed, but as unlike my Lady as those poor wretches whom we strangle for a show are unlike themselves, who seem to lose, the instant that the fatal bolt is drawn, all fellowship with the human, and become mere bundles of clothes. The drop had fallen, and without warning, from under Lady Lisgard's feet, but unhappily the victim was conscious, and not dead. CHAPTER III. ONLY “THE HEART.”