"It will be delicious; there is nothing I should like so much; but I--I sprained my ankle in jumping that gate; and Amy" (that's "my cousin who happens to sing"), "I heard you cough three times this morning. _You_ won't be so imprudent as to risk the night air? Ah! they are gone at last; and now, Amy dear--good, kindest Amy!--open the especial crimson book quickly, and give me first your own pet song, and then mine, and then 'The Three Fishers,' and then 'Maud,' and then, I suppose, they will be coming back again; but by that time, they may be as enthusiastic as they please, we shall be able to meet them fairly." Things have changed since David's day; spirits are raised sometimes now, as well as laid, by harp and song. In good truth, they are not always evil ones. On that night, Royston Keene listened to the sweet voice that seemed to knock at the gates of his heart--gates shut so long that the bars had rusted in their staples--not loudly or imperiously, but powerful in its plaintive appeal, like that of those one dearly loved, standing without in the bitter cold, and pleading--"Ah! let me in!" He listened till a pleasant, dreamy feeling of _domesticity_ began to creep over him that he had never known before. He could realize, then, that there were circumstances under which a man might easily dispense with high play, and hard riding, and hard flirting (to give it a mild name), and hard drinking, and other excitements which habit had almost turned into necessities, without missing any one of them. There were two words which ought to have put all these fancies to flight, as the writing on the wall scattered the guests of Belshazzar--"Too Late." But he turned his head away, and would not read them. He had actually succeeded in ignoring another disenchanting reality--the presence of Mrs. Danvers. That estimable person seemed more than usually fidgetty, and disposed to make herself, as well as others, uncomfortable. There was evidently something on her mind from her glancing so often and so nervously at the door. It opened at last softly, just as Cecil had finished "The Swallow," and revealed Mr. Fullarton standing on the threshold. The latter was not well pleased with the scene before him. There was an air of comfort about it which, under the circumstances, he thought decidedly wrong; besides which he could not get rid of a vague misgiving (the rarest thing with him!) that his visit was scarcely welcome or well timed.