'But when the sighing breezes own Sad autumn's blighting sway, And withered flowers and leaves are strewn, In silence o'er thy way; Then think of me! for withered lies The dearest hope I nursed; And I have seen, with bitter sighs, My brightest dream dispersed.' Other verses--of which these are a sample--followed, and her voice, tender, plaintive, half passionate, and somewhat piteous, gave a powerful effect to the words, to which Tony Dalton seemed to listen like a man in a dream as he hung over her. 'Oh, Laura,' exclaimed Alison, hurrying to her side, with a merry little laugh, 'that melodramatic ditty is most unlike you. Where, in the name of goodness, did you pick it up?' 'I have heard that song long, long ago, Mrs. Trelawney,' said Captain Dalton, trying to pull himself together. 'When?' asked the singer, turning her eyes upon him with one of their most effective glances under lashes long and dark. 'I cannot say,' replied the officer; 'but I have heard these verses sung by a voice so like yours that I am bewildered.' 'Was it in a dream?' she asked, softly. 'Perhaps.' 'I found them in an old album, in which they were written by a friend years ago.' 'What friend?' asked Dalton, almost mechanically. 'That matters little now, nor could it interest you.' 'It does--it does, because I knew that song well years ago, as you say.' Her eyelashes quivered, even her hands trembled with some real or perhaps pretended emotion, and she cut short the subject by dashing at once into a piece of Verdi's music, and by her brilliancy and sparkle she seemed to be absorbing Dalton entirely now, greatly to the dismay of Jerry, who was one of her bondsmen. Mrs. Trelawney, who had undoubtedly been studying the former, saw that he was in many ways an interesting man, whose face and bearing indicated that he had seen much of the world, much of human life, and done all that a soldier might do in it--that there was at times something of restlessness and impatience in his eyes and on his lips, as of a man who had a secret, the clue to which she was curious to find. When Alison took her place at the piano, where Goring posted himself on duty to turn the leaves (old Lord Cadbury knew not a note of music luckily), Mrs. Trelawney drew her daughter towards her, and said-- 'This is my little girl, Captain Dalton. Give your hand, child.' The latter, a very little girl, indeed--quite a small lady--gave her tiny hand to Dalton, who looked into her shy eyes earnestly, and then said, with a bright smile-- 'How singular that she is not like you!' 'No--she is dark-complexioned,' 'And you are almost blonde, though your eyes are hazel. I presume she resembles her father?' 'She does in many points--in others I hope she never will,' added Mrs. Trelawney, in her heart. 'Is it long since she lost him?' asked Dalton, softly. 'She never knew him.' 'How?' 'Fate took him from me before she was born.'