“Will you sing?” he said, “or are you too tired?” he added, quick to notice her pallor and weariness. “No,” she said, and went to the piano, and he found one of the modern ballads set duet fashion, and they began. Their voices harmonized perfectly, and the squire settled himself in a chair to listen with something like peace in his eyes. “If you had loved me years ago, When Time was young and Fate was free What happiness we now should know! Love came too late for you and me.” the refrain of the song ran; but at the last line of the second verse Olivia’s clear voice faltered and broke, and the music ceased. The squire rose apprehensively, and Bartley Bradstone glowered across the room suspiciously, but, with a quick, yet apparently natural motion of his hand, Faradeane caused the music to slide from the stand. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “It was my clumsiness.” She looked up at him gratefully, the moment or two giving her time to recover herself. “Let me try it again,” she said in a low voice; but he shook his head. “No; you are tired, I can see, and I am out of voice.” “I am tired,” she said, with a smile that cut him to the heart. “And I think I’ll say good-night.” He went and opened the door for her, and, after bidding the rest “Good-night,” she passed him with bent head, and without giving him her hand. When she had gained her own room she flung herself down beside the bed, and hid her face in her hands. “Three weeks! Three weeks!” she moaned. Then she rose with a desperate laugh, and sang softly, with the delight in self-torture which a woman alone can feel: “If you had loved me years ago, When Time was young and Fate was free, What happiness we now should know! Love came too late for you and me.” CHAPTER XX. AN APPALLING APPARITION. The announcement of Olivia’s approaching marriage caused almost as much excitement as the news of her engagement. She had insisted upon the ceremony being as quiet a one as possible, and, for a wonder, Bartley Bradstone assented. At least a score of young ladies were desirous of acting as bridesmaids upon so famous an occasion, but Olivia desired to limit the number to two, and chose Annie and Mary, much to their delight and Aunt Amelia’s chagrin. “My dear Olivia,” she remonstrated in her most dignified manner. “Only two bridesmaids! Why, the veriest pauper has three or four! Let me beg of you to remember your position, and what is due to it! I’ve nothing to say against Annie and Mary, but I cannot forget that there are others who have a claim upon us. For instance, there are those six dear girls of the duchess’. Now, why--I ask, why--cannot you choose them?”