Lisbeth smiled, a faint smile not unlike moonlight. She was in a singing mood, but she was in a fantastic, half-melancholy mood, too. Perhaps this was why she chose a rather melancholy song. She folded her hands upon her knees, in that favorite fashion of hers, the fashion Anstruthers remembered so well, and began; “All that I had to give I gave-- Good-by! Yet Love lies silent in the grave, And that I lose, which most I crave, Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! “Nay! turn your burning eyes away! Good-by! It comes to this--this bitter day, That you and I can only say, Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! “The rest lies buried with the past! Good-by! The golden days, that sped so fast, The golden days, too bright to last; Good-by! Good-by! Good-by! “The fairest rose blooms but a day, Good-by! The fairest Spring must end with May, And you and I can only say, Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!” “Ah, Lisbeth!” cried Georgie, when she stopped. “What a sad thing! I never heard you sing it before.” “No,” answered Lisbeth. “I don’t think anybody ever heard me sing it before. It is an imitation of a little German song I have heard, or read, somewhere. I can’t remember where, indeed. I can remember nothing but that the refrain of ‘Good-by’ haunted me; and the words I have just sung grew out of it.” Anstruthers said nothing. He had watched her face, as she sung, and had almost lost control over himself, as he was often on the verge of doing lately. What a consummate actress the girl was! The mournful little song had fallen from lips as sweetly and sadly as if both words and music welled from a tender, tried, soft heart. An innocent girl of sixteen might have sung just such a song, in just such a voice, if she had lost her lover. Once he had been amazed by the fancy that the large, mellow, dark eyes were full of tears. He had been quiet enough before, but after the song was ended, he did not utter a word, but lay silent upon the grass until their return to the house. Georgie rose first, and then Lisbeth and himself. But Georgie, going on before them, left them a moment together, and as they crossed the lawn, Lisbeth paused, and bending over a bed of lilies to gather a closed white bud, sang, in a low tone, as if unconsciously, the last verse. “The fairest rose blooms but a day, Good-by! The fairest Spring must end with May, And you and I can only say, Good-by! Good-by! Good-by!” When she stood upright, she found herself confronting a face so pale and agitated, that she drew back a little. “I wish to God,” he broke out, “I wish to God that you were a better woman!” She looked up at him for a second, with a smile, cold, and strange, and bitter. “I wish to God I was!” she said, and, without another word, turned from him and walked away, flinging her closed lilies upon the dewy grass.