"Faith, I will," cried Pat, taking the host's chair, "now then, boys, fill up, and no heel taps. Ronald, my boy, you're like a death's head; pass the claret, and don't be bringing your Egyptian mummies to the feast." Under the influence of Pat, everyone woke up, and the wine was circulated, and also several stories, the morality of which was doubtful. After they had had enough wine, all the gentlemen adjourned to the drawing-room, where they found the Girton girl at the piano, wailing out the last new sentimental ballad, called "Columbine," which was very milk-and-watery, but useful in keeping the conversation going. Then Mrs. Bishop tickled the piano in a mild, clerical way, playing "The Maiden's Prayer," as taught to her by Mrs. Pellypop, who learned it in her youth, somewhere about the reign of George III. Carmela was asked to sing, but refused, whereupon Pat sat down and sang, "I love a lubly gal," the melody of which brought all sorts of memories to Ronald's heart, as he remembered the days on board the "Neptune." He looked at Carmela, but saw she had arisen from her seat, and had gone out into the moonlight. Ronald sprang to his feet, and, snatching up a light cloak, ran out to place it on her shoulders. "You will catch cold, Miss Cotoner," he said politely placing it round her. Carmela accepted his attention passively, and they walked in silence round the house, until they came to the lawn. A ruddy glare of light blazed across it, which proceeded through the open door of the smoking-room, and it looked so warm and comfortable that they both moved simultaneously towards it, and stepped in. "It will be warmer here," said Ronald, ceremoniously removing the cloak from his companion's shoulders, while she knelt in front of the fire, and spread out her hands to the blaze. The Australian leaned against the mantelpiece, tall and stately, and looked sadly at the girl at his feet. "Yes," replied Carmela, slowly; "it will be--why do you speak to me so coldly?" she asked, suddenly. "How would you have me speak?" he said, bitterly; "you cannot expect me to say much to another man's promised wife." This was brutal--she arose to her feet. "I did not expect that from you," she said. "You are unjust; I am forced into this." "You are not," he began but she stopped him. "I think we will go to the drawing-room, Mr. Monteith," she interrupted; "will you give me your arm? this is a pleasant room," with an effort at gaiety. "Yes, very," he replied. They were both acting a part. "Look at all these guns and daggers," said Carmela, stopping before them, "and there's a stiletto; get it down, will you, Mr. Monteith?" Ronald took down the weapon, overcome with vague emotions. A stiletto, the very weapon she had used to-- But, no--it could not be true. "It's very pretty," said Carmela, taking it to the lamp to examine it. "I had one once with an ivory handle--the head of Bacchus surrounded with bunches of grapes."