But in a moment she looked up, and, clasping her hands, took a passionate step forward. “My lord Duke,” she said, urgently and pitifully, “tell him--you owe it to me--that I knew nothing of your presence here, that I guessed you as little as he did himself. My behaviour proves it.” “Surely, madam,” said his Highness, rather grimly. “It should be self-evident to any reasonable man. But to put the matter beyond dispute, I confess myself a victim to the same mischievous agency which, it seems, has been working this havoc amongst us. From private information received, I understood that here, on this night, a green scarf was to rally to a green bow, the pass-word ‘Kit,’ and ’twas in a mere spirit of frolic that I undertook to be present in order to confuse the issue. If I had guessed for a moment----” “But you did not guess, Sir,” said Chesterfield dryly, and only half convinced. “I did not guess,” said the Duke, mildly and piously. “And now comes in the question, who is the one responsible for all this misunderstanding?” “Kit!” cried Moll. She was standing a little apart on a rising mound. “Kit!” she cried, with a ringing laugh. “Here’s Kit!” And she took from her pocket a little impish, sexless doll, a mere thing of cloth and wire, which she flourished in the air. “My darling,” she said, hugging and kissing the fetish. “Look at them! Look at it, good people! It’s always been with me, everywhere, from the time I was a baby; and sometimes it’s a girl, and sometimes a boy; and I never can tell from one minute to another what it will be up to next. O, you dear!” and she held the rubbish to her young breast, swaying it as if it were an infant. They had all turned on her, like a pack baying a little speared otter. Stupefaction marked their faces; a dead silence ensued. And suddenly, in the midst of it, awoke a sound--music--the plucking of fingers on harp strings; and with one impulse they turned. It came from the darkness of the trees--sweet, wild, unearthly; it rose on the starry night like incense, like a drug, like a spell, taking their brains captive. And in a moment it had slipped into a symphony, preluding some wonder--and the girl, as if irresistibly compelled, was singing-- “My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear. Oh, turn, love, I prythee, love, turn to me, For thou art the only one, love, that art ador’d by me. I’ll twine thee a garland of straw, love, I’ll marry thee with a rush ring, My frozen hopes will thaw, love, And merrily we will sing. Then turn to me, my own love; I prythee, love, turn to me, For thou art the only one, love, that art adored by me.” The voice ceased, and the music. A sort of universal sigh seemed to breathe from the hearts of the listeners. It was like a sigh of waking. The girl wiped her eyes, and sniffed, and laughed.