The man departed; and the Misses Mordaunt finished their duet, and rose from the piano, to receive the usual thanks and acknowledgments from their hearers. Again Miss Graham was asked to sing, and again she seated herself before the instrument, triumphant in the consciousness that she could excel the timid girls who had just left the piano. But this time Lionel Dale did not place himself beside the instrument. He stood near the door of the apartment, ready to receive the servant, if he should return with a second message from the gipsy woman. The servant did return, and this time he begged his master to step outside the room before he delivered his message. Lionel complied immediately, and followed the man into the corridor without. "I was almost afraid to speak in there, sir," said the man, in an awe-stricken whisper; "folks have such ears. The woman says she must see you, sir, and this very night. It is a matter of life and death, she says." "Then in that case I will see this woman. Go into the drawing-room, Jackson, and tell Mrs. Mordaunt, with my compliments, that I find myself compelled to receive one of my parishioners; and that she and the other ladies must be so good as to excuse my absence for half an hour." "Yes, sir." The rector went to the hall, where, cowering by the fire, he found an old gipsy woman. She was so muffled from head to foot in her garments of woollen stuff, strange and garish in colour, and fantastical in form, that it was almost impossible to discover what she really was like. Her shoulders were bent and contracted as if with extreme age. Loose tresses of gray hair fell low over her forehead. Her skin was dark and tawny; and contrasted strangely with the gray hair and the dark lustrous eyes. The gipsy woman rose as Lionel Dale entered the hall. She bent her head in response to his kindly salutation; but she did not curtsey as before a superior in rank and station. "Come with me, my good woman," said the rector, "and let me hear all about this very important business of yours." He led the way to the library--a low-roofed but spacious chamber, lined from ceiling to floor with books. A large reading-lamp, with a Parian shade, stood on a small writing-table near the fire, casting a subdued light on objects near at hand, and leaving the rest of the room in shadow. A pile of logs burnt cheerily on the hearth. On one side of the fire was the chair in which the rector usually sat; on the other, a large, old-fashioned, easy-chair. "Sit down, my good woman," said the rector, pointing to the latter; "I suppose you have some long story to tell me." He seated himself as he spoke, and leaned upon the writing-table, playing idly with a carved ivory paper-knife.