"He stands like her slave, to obey her slightest wish," she thought. "Ah! how happy she must be," and with a something that was almost a sigh, she turned back into the dim calm of the fernery; she felt strangely alone and solitary at that moment. Suddenly there was a step behind her, and looking up she saw Lord Leycester. "I have found you!" he said, and there was a ring of satisfaction and pleasure in his voice that went straight to her heart. "Where have you been hiding?" She looked up at the handsome face full of life and strong manhood, and her eyes fell. "I have not been hiding," she said. "I have been here." "You are right," he said, seating himself beside her; "this is the best place; it is cool and quiet here; it is more like our woods, is it not, with the ferns and the primroses?" and at the "our" he smiled into her eyes. "It is very lovely here," she said. "It's all lovely. How beautifully she sings!" she added, rather irrelevantly. "Sings?" he said. "Oh, Lenore! Yes, she sings well, perfectly. And that reminds me. I have been sent to ask you to make music for us." Stella shrank back with a glance of alarm. "I? Oh, no, no! I could not." He smiled at her. "But your uncle----" "He should not!" said Stella, with a touch of crimson. "I could not sing. I am afraid." "Afraid! You?" he said. "Of what?" "Of--of--everything," she said, with a little laugh. "I could not sing before all these people. I have never done so. Besides, to sing after Lady Lenore would be like dancing a hornpipe." "I should be content if you would dance a hornpipe," he said. "I should think it good and wise." "Are you laughing at me?" she said, looking up at the dark eyes. "Why?" "Laughing at you?" he repeated. "I! I could not. It is you who laugh at me; I think you are laughing at me most times. You will not sing, then?" "I cannot," she said. "Then you shall not," he responded; "you shall not do anything you do not like. But some time you will sing for us, will you not? Your uncle has been telling us about your voice, and how you came by it," and his own voice grew wonderfully gentle. "My father, he meant," said Stella, simply. "Yes; he could sing. He was a great musician, and when I think of that, I am inclined to resolve never to open my lips again."