‘Well, I will not be naughty, and want to know what I should not hear,’ said the lady. ‘I fear it is a sad world we live in, Mr. Barclay.’ ‘It would be a much sadder one if there were no fair members of your sex ready to make it pleasant for us,’ he replied, with a bow. ‘You are incorrigible!’ she exclaimed, as she turned away. At this moment a voice rose from the neighbourhood of the piano, whence the doctor’s son, who had discovered an accompanist among the young ladies, sent forth the first note of one of a new selection of songs. It was known to be a new one, and the company was silent. ‘Give me a glance, a witching glance, This poor heart to illume, Or else the rose that through the dance Thy tresses did perfume. Keep, cruel one, the ribbon blue From thy light hand that flows; Keep it--it binds my fond heart true; But oh, give me the rose!’ ‘How well it suits Mr. Turner’s voice,’ said Lucilla, as the singer paused in the interval between the verses. ‘The words are lovely,’ said her friend--‘so full of feeling!’ ‘The sighs that, drawn from mem’ry’s fount, My aching bosom tear-- O bid them cease! nor, heartless, count My gestures of despair. Take all I have--the plaints, the tears That hinder my repose, The heart that’s faithful through the years; But oh, give me the rose!’ A polite murmur ran through the room as Mr. Turner laid down his music. ‘I notice that our musical genius keeps his eyes fixed on one particular spot as he sings,’ observed an old gentleman at the whist-table, as he dealt the cards. ‘I wonder who the young puppy is staring at.’ ‘If you had noticed that I threw away my seven of clubs, it would have been more to the purpose, and we might not have lost the trick,’ remarked the spinster who was his partner, acidly. ‘People have no right to ask one to play whist in a room where there is such a noise going on,’ said the first speaker. ‘Did I hear you say _whist?_’ inquired the lady sarcastically. Mr. Barclay passed on to the little group formed by his host and the Misses Robertson. ‘How are you, Barclay?’ said the sailor, looking up from his chair, and reflecting that, though the lawyer was more than a dozen years his junior, and had double as many legs as himself, he would not care to change places with him. He was a man of strong prejudices. ‘I have not had the pleasure of meeting you since our afternoon together at Whanland,’ said Barclay, pausing before the sofa with a bow which was as like Gilbert’s as he could make it. ‘We go out very little, sir,’ said Miss Hersey. ‘Speid will be a great acquisition,’ continued Barclay; ‘we all feel the want of a few smart young fellows to wake us up, don’t we, Miss Robertson?’ ‘We like our cousin particularly,’ said Miss Hersey; ‘it has been a great pleasure to welcome him back.’