To-night Monica was unusually _distraite_, sad and heavy at heart, she hardly knew why; finding it unusually difficult to talk or smile, or to hide from the eyes of others the melancholy that oppressed her. She felt a strange craving for her husband’s presence. She wanted him near her. She longed to return to those first days of married life, when his compassion for her made him so tender, when he was always with her, and she believed that he loved her. Sometimes she had been almost happy then, despite the wrench from the old associations and the strangeness of all around. Now she was always sad and heavy-hearted; and to-night she was curiously oppressed. It was only at this house that she could ever be persuaded to sing, and to-night it was not till the end of the evening that Lord Haddon’s entreaties prevailed with her. She rose at last and crossed to the piano, and sitting down without any music before her, sang a simple melodious setting to some words of Christina Rossetti’s:— “When I am dead, my dearest, Sing no sad songs for me; Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress-tree. Be the green grass above me, With showers and dew-drops wet; And if thou wilt, remember— And if thou wilt, forget. “I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale, Sing on as if in pain. But dreaming through the twilight, Which doth not rise nor set, I haply may remember— And haply may forget.” As she sang, the room, the company, all faded from her view and from her mind—all but Randolph. One strange longing filled her soul—the longing that she might indeed lie sleeping and at rest in some quiet, wind-swept spot, her spirit hovering free—to see if her husband ever came to stand beside that grave, to see if he would in such a case remember—or forget. For herself Monica, knew well that remembrance would be her portion. She never could forget. There was a wonderful sweetness and pathos in her voice as she sang. The listeners held their breath, and sudden tears started to Beatrice’s eyes. When the last note had died away, Randolph crossed the room and laid his hand upon his wife’s shoulder. There was a subdued murmur all through the room, but she only heard her husband’s voice. “That was very sweet, Monica,” he said gently. “I have never heard it before; but you make it sound so unutterably sad.” She looked up at him wistfully. “I think sad songs are always sweetest—they are more like life, at least.” His eyes were very full of tenderness; she saw it, and it almost unmanned her. “I am so tired, Randolph; will you take me home? The carriage will not be here, but it is such a little way. I should like best to walk.”