She paused when the song was finished, expecting some acknowledgment from Captain Gordon; but the silence of the darkening room was only broken by the slumberous breathing of Mrs. MacClaverhouse. It was a little ungracious of him to utter no word of thanks, Cecil thought; and then she began to wonder about the cause of his melancholy of this evening, and the subject of that moody reverie which had occupied him all day. While she was wondering about this, the servant came into the room, bearing a tea-tray and a monster moderator lamp, that towered like an obelisk in the centre of the little table on which the dowager was wont to make tea. That lady was startled from her slumbers by the faint jingling of the teacups, and looked about her as sharply as if she had never been asleep at all. "How quiet you have both been!" she exclaimed, rather impatiently. "I don't enjoy my nap half so much without the drowsy hum of your voices. What droning thing was that you were singing just now, Cecil?" There was no answer. Cecil still bent abstractedly over the piano, touching the notes softly now and then, but making no sound. Hector Gordon lay with his face hidden by his folded arms. The fussy dowager darted across the room and swooped down upon her nephew. "Hector," she cried, "what in goodness' name has been the matter with you all day? Why, bless my soul, what's this?--the pillow's wet. You've been crying!" Captain Gordon got up from the sofa and laughed pleasantly at his aunt's scared face. "It seems very absurd for a man to be nervous or hysterical," he said; "but I have _not_ been myself to-day, and Lady Cecil's song quite upset me." "What, that droning thing?" exclaimed Mrs. MacClaverhouse. "It sounded to _me_ like Young's _Night-Thoughts_ set to music." "I think I'll wish you good-night, auntie," said the soldier. Cecil wondered whether it was the glare of the moderator lamp that made him look so pale as he bent over his aunt. "I think you'd better," answered the dowager; "and if you're not yourself to-night, I only hope you will be yourself to-morrow. I haven't common patience with such nonsense." "Good-night, Lady Cecil." He paused by the piano to say this, but he did not offer Cecil his hand as he had been wont to do at parting, and he left the room without another word. CHAPTER IV. LOVE AND DUTY. The Captain did not appear at the breakfast table next morning, and it was some time after breakfast when he came into the drawing-room where Cecil sat alone writing letters. He entered through one of the open windows. "I have been exploring our favourite hills, Lady Cecil," he said; "I hope you did not wait breakfast for me?" "No; auntie never waits for any one. Shall I order fresh tea or coffee to be made for you?" "No, thanks; I have no appetite for breakfast this morning." Cecil went on writing.