Bebe raises to his a face smiling, but pale. "Well yes, I will sing you something," she says, and taking my place, strikes a few lingering chords. "I have no music with me," she continues, with her face turned from us, "so you must be satisfied with what overcomes first to me." Then she begins:--- 'Along the grass sweet airs are sown Our way, this day in spring Of all the songs that we have known, Now which one shall we sing? Not that, my love, ah! no; Not this? my love? why so? Yet both were ours, yet hours will come and go. The branches cross above our eyes, The skies are in a net, And what's the thing beneath the skies We two would most forget? Not birth, my love, no, no, Not death, my love, no, no; The love once ours, but ours long hours ago.'" As she comes to the last line, a curious wild sadness that is almost despair, mingles with the petulant defiance that has hitherto characterised her tone. And the music, where has she got it--so weird, so pathetic, so full of passionate recklessness. When she is finished we are silent. I feel horribly inclined to cry, yet scarcely know why, and am certain Marmaduke's eyes are fastened upon me. Somebody says, "Thank you," and then we all follow suit. Chandos alone is silent. "Why will you sing sad songs, Bebe?" exclaims 'Duke, Impatiently; and Bebe laughs. "I suppose because I am such a dismal animal myself" she replies lightly, and, rising, comes over to me. The moonlight streams across the carpet, rebuking the soft radiance of the lamps, A hush has fallen upon us. Her song's refrain almost repeats itself aloud through the stillness. Two tears fall quietly upon my clasped hands. "The love _once_ ours---" Pushing the curtain aside with one hand, Chandos says, in a low, determined tone:--- "Will you come and see how the gardens look by moonlight?" He addresses no one, he mentions no name, but his eyes are fixed on Bebe; he has forgotten all, everything, but her. Putting my own thoughts from me, I listen with breathless eagerness for her answer. Well do I know it is the third and last appeal. Should she reject this she will indeed lose forever the heart that truly loves her. At length she speaks. "Yes, if you wish it," she says, letting the words fall from her lips with singular sweetness. She joins him, and together they go out on the balcony, down the steps, and so disappear. "I am so rejoiced!" exclaims Harriet, plaintively, when they are well out of hearing. "Now I do hope they will marry each other, and bring their little comedy to a successful close. I am sure we must all confess it has been a sufficiently long run." --- "Yes, I sang it on purpose. I don't mind acknowledging it to you," cries Bebe, hours afterwards, flinging her arms around my neck, and hiding her face out of sight.