The afternoon passed quickly enough: to Vincent every moment was golden. Then in the evening they went to the theatre; and the young people at least were abundantly charmed with the gay costumes, the pretty music, and the fun and merriment of the bright little operetta. George Bethune seemed less interested. He sate well back in the box, his face in shadow; and although his eyes, from under those shaggy eyebrows, were fixed on the stage, it was in an absent fashion, as if he were thinking of other things. And indeed he was thinking of far other things; for when, after the piece was over, those three set out to walk home through the dark streets, Maisrie and Vincent could hear the old man, who walked somewhat apart from them, reciting to himself, and that in a proud and sustained voice. It was not the frivolity of comic opera that he had in his mind; it was something of finer and sterner stuff; as they crossed by the Old Steine, where there was a space of silence, they could make out clearly what this was— ’Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, And our true love sall never twin, Until ye tell what comes of women, I wot, who die in strong travailing?’ ’Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord’s knee, Weel set about wi’ gillyflowers, I wot sweet company for to see. ’O cocks are crowing a merry midnight, I wot the wild-fowl are boding day; The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, And I, ere now, will be missed away.’ There was a curiously solemn effect about this solitary voice, here in the dark. The old man did not seem to care whether he was overheard or not; it was entirely to himself that he was repeating the lines of the old ballad. And thereafter he walked on in silence, while the two lovers, busy with their own little world, were murmuring nothings to each other. But Maisrie, for one, was soon to be recalled to the actualities, and even grim incongruities, of every day life. When they reached their lodgings the servant girl, who opened the door to them, paused for a second and looked up and down the street. "Yes, sir, there he is," said she. "Who?" George Bethune demanded. "A man who has been asking for you, sir—and said he would wait." At the same moment there came out of the gloom a rather shabby-looking person. "Mr. George Bethune?" he said. "Yes, that is my name," the old man answered, impatiently: probably he suspected. "Something for you, sir," said the stranger, handing a folded piece of paper—and therewith he left.