When at last they rise to return, he is wandering in this dream still, and he is very silent as they walk home. As they enter the garden gate, they see Miss Clarissa standing at the window, watching for them, just as she had used to do, to Lisbeth’s frequent irritation, in the olden days. And Lisbeth, pausing at the gate, gathered a large red rose. “The roses are in bloom,” she says, “just as they were when I went away with Mrs. Despard. I could almost persuade myself that I had never been away at all.” That velvet-leaved red rose was placed carelessly in her hair, when she came down stairs, after dressing for dinner, and its heavy fragrance floated about her. She wore one of her prettiest dresses, looked her best, and was in a good humor; and accordingly the Misses Tregarthyn were restored to perfect peace of mind, and rendered happy. It was plain, they thought, that Miss Esmond had been right, and there was no need for fear. How the spinster trio enjoyed themselves that evening, to be sure! “You used to sing some very pretty songs for us, my love,” said Miss Clarissa. “I wonder if you remember the one Hector was so fond of? Something very sweet, about drinking to somebody with your eyes, and he would not ask for wine. I really forget the rest.” Lisbeth, who was turning over a pile of her old music, looked up at Anstruthers with a civil, wicked smile. “Did I sing, ‘Drink to me only’?” she said. “And was it a favorite of yours? I wonder if it is here? How nice that Aunt Clarissa should remind us of it!” She drew out the yellow old sheet from under the rest of the music in a minute more, her smile not without a touch of venomous amusement. How she had loathed it a few years ago! “I wonder if I could sing it,” she said; and, prompted by some daring demon, she sat down at the piano, and sang it from beginning to end. But, by the time she had struck the last chord, her mood changed. She got up, with a little frown, and she did not look at Anstruthers at all. “Bah!” she said. “What nonsense it is!” And she pushed the poor, old, faded sheet impatiently aside. Anstruthers moved a step forward, and laid his hand upon it. “Will you give it to me?” he asked, with a suppressed force in his manner, quite new. “Why?” she demanded, indifferently. “For a whim’s sake,” he answered. “There is no accounting for tastes. Perhaps I may fancy that I should like to learn it.” She raised her eyebrows, and gave her shoulders a puzzled little shrug. “You are welcome to it,” she commented. “It is not an article of value.” “Thanks,” rather sardonically; and he folded the sheet, and slipped it into his pocket.