Whether it was from Lady Lucy’s evil report, or that the change in Lady Alice’s habits and appearance had attracted the attention of Lady Hilton, I cannot tell; but one morning she appeared at the door of the study, and called her. Lady Alice rose and went, with a slight gesture of impatience. In a few minutes she returned, looking angry and determined, and resumed her seat. But whatever it was that had passed between them, it had destroyed that quiet flow of the feelings which was necessary to the working of her thoughts. In vain she tried: she could do nothing correctly. At last she burst into tears and left the room. I was almost beside myself with distress and apprehension. She did not return that day. Next morning she entered at the usual hour, looking composed, but paler than of late, and showing signs of recent weeping. When we were all seated, and had just commenced our work, I happened to look up, and caught her eyes intently fixed on me. They dropped instantly, but without any appearance of confusion. She went on with her arithmetic, and succeeded tolerably. But this respite was to be of short duration. Lady Hilton again entered, and called her. She rose angrily, and my quick ear caught the half-uttered words, “That woman will make an idiot of me again!” She did not return; and never from that hour resumed her place in the schoolroom. The time passed heavily. At dinner she looked proud and constrained; and spoke only in monosyllables. For two days I scarcely saw her. But the third day, as I was busy in the library alone, she entered. “Can I help you, Mr. Campbell?” she said. I glanced involuntarily towards the door. “Lady Hilton is not at home,” she replied to my look, while a curl of indignation contended with a sweet tremor of shame for the possession of her lip.--“Let me help you.” “You will help me best if you sing that ballad I heard you singing just before you came in. I never heard you sing before.” “Didn’t you? I don’t think I ever did sing before.” “Sing it again, will you, please?” “It is only two verses. My old Scotch nurse used to sing it when I was a little girl-oh, so long ago! I didn’t know I could sing it.” She began without more ado, standing in the middle of the room, with her back towards the door. Annie was dowie, an’ Willie was wae: What can be the matter wi’ siccan a twae? For Annie was bonnie’s the first o’ the day, And Willie was strang an’ honest an’ gay. Oh! the tane had a daddy was poor an’ was proud; An’ the tither a minnie that cared for the gowd. They lo’ed are anither, an’ said their say-- But the daddy an’ minnie hae pairtit the twae. Just as she finished the song, I saw the sharp eyes of Lady Lucy peeping in at the door. “Lady Lucy is watching at the door, Lady Alice,” I said. “I don’t care,” she answered; but turned with a flush on her face, and stepped noiselessly to the door. “There is no one there,” she said, returning. “There was, though,” I answered.