"Can't, mum," he retorted laughing; "I'm stone broke. However, there's no one about, so I'll do better--cross the gipsy's lips with kisses," and before she could draw back, this audacious young man put his words into action. "Oh, Reginald!" "Oh, Una," he mimicked lightly, "don't say a word or I'll take another. Come along, here's the church, and by Jove," as the sound of music broke on their ears, "there's Cecilia at the organ." "And she's playing the Wedding March," cried Una blushing. "It's a good omen, dear," he whispered, as they walked up the aisle, "this is like a rehearsal of marriage, isn't it?" They both laughed gaily, and as their young voices rang through the empty church the organist turned round on her seat rapidly to the direction from whence the sound proceeded. Cecilia Mosser was one of those light-coloured women who bear the same relation to a full-coloured blonde as a fireless opal does to the same stone with the red spark glowing under its opaque whiteness. While Una had all the characteristics of a true blonde, flushed with the roseate hue of a strong vitality, these same characteristics were reproduced in Cecilia with a distinct want of colour and of life. She had the same pale complexion, the same golden hair and the same blue eyes, but the complexion was a dead white, and lacked the opalescent transparency of Una's, the golden hair was dull in appearance, without any lustre, and the azure eyes were coldly blue, though in this latter case, being sightless, they naturally did not reflect the soul within, having therefore a lifeless appearance. A sad, patient face it was, stamped with that expression of mute appeal so common to the faces of the blind. She was dressed in a dark gown, with a collar and cuffs of white linen, her bleached-looking hair being coiled smoothly at the back of her head. "How are you, Cecilia?" asked Una, ascending the chancel steps. "I have come to see about the concert." "Yes, I was expecting you, Miss," answered the blind girl in a soft, fluty voice which, though low, was distinct and clear. "Is Mr. Blake with you? I thought I heard his step." "Oh, I'm here," said Blake, advancing towards the organ. "What is the matter--eh?" "I want you to sing at the concert," replied Cecilia, lightly touching the yellow keys of the organ; "Miss Una, of course, also." "Let us sing a duet," suggested Una; "'Oh, that we two were Maying,' or something of Mendelssohn's." "The first is the best," said Reginald quickly. "I think every one will like that. Who else is going to perform, Cecilia?" "Miss Cassandra and Mr. Priggs," she replied, touching off the names on her fingers. "Mr.----" "What! Is Priggs going to sing?" interrupted Blake laughing. "No; recite a piece of his own." "I hope it will be intelligible." "How severe you are," said Una smiling. "Ah! you don't know Ferdinand's poetry," replied Reginald pathetically; "I do. It's a mixture of Keats, Thompson, Browning, Shakespeare----"