"Only one more," pleaded Isa, as Rhoda made a motion to rise. "This is the last lecture-night, you know, and very likely we shall not have another chance for ever so long. Sing 'The Origin of the Harp.' I do think it is so lovely. Come; they won't be here for an hour yet, I know." Isa was mistaken. The lecture had been very much shortened by an accident to the gas-pipes which had left the hall in darkness. Mr. and Mrs. Ferrand were alighting from the street-car at the corner at that very moment, and they entered the gate just as Rhoda began the second verse of the song. "Can that be Isabella singing?" said Mrs. Ferrand, astonished at the clear, round notes which reached her ears—notes as different from Isa's as the whistle of the oriole from the twitter of the sparrow. "I never heard her sing like that, or play like that either." "Perhaps your sister Harriet may have arrived unexpectedly," said Mr. Ferrand. "Harriet would not be out of school so near the close of the term; and besides, she does not sing. No, that is like no voice in our family." Mr. Ferrand stepped to the long drawing-room window, which looked out on the lawn, and opened the blind. He could hardly believe his eyes. There sat Rhoda at the grand piano, and there, standing by, with her arm on the "young person's" shoulder, was his own systematically educated daughter Isa, actually abetting this low-born servant's crime—so Mr. Ferrand at once called Rhoda's desecration of his treasured instrument. "Mrs. Ferrand," said he, in a voice of calm, concentrated anger, "will you do me the favour to look into this window?" Mrs. Ferrand looked, and at that moment, attracted by some slight noise, or by that curious sense of being looked at which almost every one has experienced, both the girls turned round and saw the faces at the window. Isa uttered a shriek of dismay, rushed away to her own room, and bolted herself in. Rhoda stood her ground. She was very much frightened, and equally ashamed also, but it was not in her nature to run. "What are you doing here?" was Mr. Ferrand's first question. "I was playing on the piano," answered Rhoda, humbly enough. Mr. Ferrand turned to his wife: "Mrs. Ferrand, I believe no words are necessary. You must see now—even you must see, I think—that this young person is no fit inmate of our household. She may remain to-night, and also to-morrow, as it is Sunday, but no longer." "But, Mr. Ferrand, you know we are expecting company on Monday," pleaded his wife. "She might at least stay till I can find somebody. It will be very inconvenient. I don't mean to excuse her, but—" "Is it possible?" asked Mr. Ferrand, with sarcastic emphasis. "I believe I have made myself understood, Mrs. Ferrand. The young person will leave on Monday. Meantime, you will please send Isabella to me in the library."