They moved up to where Celia was standing--a tall and well-developed girl, with a quantity of red-gold hair, hazel eyes, and fair complexion. She had a short high-bridged nose, and a sweet refined mouth. Her half-brother had once painted her as Hypatia; her features were distinctly Grecian in type. She turned round at their approach, and extended her hand to the new-comer with a cordial greeting. Geoffrey Milnes was the son of the Vicar of Durlston, and junior partner of the chief doctor in the town. He was one of Herbert Karne’s most intimate friends, and spent a good deal of his spare time at the Towers, where he had established himself as Celia’s accompanist-in-chief. He possessed the happy knack of being able to make himself useful in almost any capacity, and was always so eager to assist in any way he could, that it was quite a pleasure to accept his services. Celia offered him a chair and a cup of tea. “What brings you here to-day?” she asked. “I thought you always spent Sunday with your father.” “So I do,” he answered, nibbling a tiny piece of cake. “But I happened to be passing, and, hearing the music, I could not resist the temptation to look in. If you don’t want me, though, I’ll go away.” “Of course I want you, and I am very pleased you have come,” she hastened to assure him. “Only you must think us such Sabbath-breakers.” “Not at all. You had your Sunday yesterday. We cannot expect you to keep ours as well.” “Yesterday was not our Sunday,” Celia corrected him with a smile. “We had our _Sabbath_ yesterday, but our Sunday is to-day. I have heard so many people say that we keep our Sunday on Saturday. It sounds Irish to me.” “It is rather silly, certainly,” he admitted. “But you see we generally connect Sunday with the Sabbath in our minds. What are you going to sing?” he added, as Celia selected some music from a portfolio. “Something of Schubert’s?” He went to the piano and struck a few chords. His touch was light and facile, and he was an excellent accompanist on that account. Celia’s voice was a sweet and very pure soprano, and she already possessed remarkable power and flexibility for her age. She sang Beethoven’s “_Kennst du das Land?_” with expression and a pretty German accent. Her audience listened entranced. Some of the women put down their sewing; their vision was clouded by a mist of tears. “You must not sing any more in the open air,” said Dr. Milnes, as he rose from the piano. “You will have to take very great care of your voice now that you have decided to become a professional singer. When are you going away?” “On Thursday week,” she answered with a sigh. “The entrance examination at the Academy is on the Saturday following.” “So soon!” he said regretfully. “And I suppose you will quite forget the unsophisticated Durlston people, when you are in the midst of the excitement of London life?”