Miss Angela came out on the steps to wave farewell to her brother’s guest of the night. This was in itself a particular favour; for she made it rather less than a rule to submit her charms to the broad search-light of the early morning. But--to speak figuratively--to withhold a curtesy after yielding a kiss is to value the shadow at more than the substance; for, so it was, she had already vouchsafed her gallant her company while yet the grey of dawn was melting on the blinds. It came about in this manner--that into Mr. Tuke’s waking dreams stole a strain of music very sweet and melancholy. The rogue slept lightly and unvexedly, as sinners do; and, moved by the mystic cadence, he rose, dressed with great dispatch, and descended the stairs in obedience to the alluring summons. Now, it was soon evident that this proceeded from a little panelled parlour or boudoir, at the open door of which he paused a-tiptoe, drinking in the vision of a pale morning Cecilia seated at a pianoforte communing with her soul in the softest of harmonies and an angelic gown. “Thank you!” said he presently, in a pause. “I have risen with the lark.” St. Cecilia started and turned about with a very pretty confusion. “Mr. Tuke!” she cried; and presented him with a blush through her ringlets like a moss-rose. “Ah! madam,” said he, “I dropped upon you like a spider in your bower. Your voice thrilled my web and I must needs fall.” “But I thought----” “You thought me gone. Alas! if I have imperilled my welcome by craving your brother’s hospitality till the morning. But, so it seemed to me, your beauty would owe me a recompense for a sleepless night; and I dared to stay to claim it.” “Oh, sir! You are pleased to make a sport of me. But, indeed, you are very welcome; though, I protest, nothing would have induced me to sing, had I known you in the house.” “And so would you have denied one soul a full measure of happiness.” “Poor soul.” She looked round at him with a little smile, mocking and bewitching at once. She had seated herself at the instrument again and was running her fingers lightly over the keys. “Are they not beautiful?” she said. He had stolen up behind her. “They are,” he murmured. “Like white butterflies fluttering over the chiming flowers of fairyland.” “Mr. Tuke!” she said--“what are?” “Your fingers, of course.” “Oh, fie, sir! I spoke of these melodious pianofortes. Is not mine a darling? ’Tis by Clementi, and a present from my brother.” “How can I take this praise on trust?” “You need not, if you have already been eavesdropping--dropping like a spider, I should say.” “Sing to me.” “Oh! I could not.” “Sing to me, please.”