The night wore away gradually, and nothing happened. When it was between three and four, Janet, worn out, fell fast asleep. She slept till the breakfast-bell rang, and had to hurry her dressing and hasten downstairs with an apology, wondering at herself and her own foolish terror in the red light of the wintry morning. Gussy was very ready, it was evident, to be questioned about last night. She began her self by expressing her distress that Janet had been hastened away for “_that_ child,” and narrated to her with subdued triumph how many “things” Mr. Meredith and she had gone through, and what good practice it was. “The Harwoods generally are so unmusical,” Gussy said; “I never did get any encouragement at home. But fortunately mamma likes Charley, and he may do what he pleases. I do enjoy a musical evening so. Hasn’t he a delicious voice?” “It is a charming voice,” said Janet. “And he is so well trained. To sing with him it is like getting a lesson. He wanted to know whether you were musical, but I said I feared----” “I used to be thought pretty good for accompaniments,” said Janet. “Oh, really!” but Gussy did not receive this statement with much delight. “Perhaps you’ll help me to practise my part,” she said, and returned to sound the praises of Charley. Janet would not introduce the subject of her own terrors, and if she had been ever so intent upon doing so, there was no opportunity, for Charley and his songs and his perfections left no room for any other discourse. And when Mrs. Harwood appeared matters were not much better. The old lady remarked that Janet was pale, and feared that she had not been able to sleep for the singing. “The fact is that Mr. Meredith has not been in London for a long time, and I could not cut them short, could I, the first night?” To describe the impatience with which Janet heard all this would not be easy. She said to herself, what was Mr. Meredith to her? What were his songs, his attentions, the grief of his absence, the joy of his return? She listened with a great eagerness to interrupt, to break through this eternal burden of the self-occupied to whom their own little affairs were everything, with her own questions. But when Mrs. Harwood’s voice stopped Janet did not find hers. What could she say? “I heard a dreadful cry last night. What was it? You know what it was!” It seemed to her when she turned this question in her mind that it was a thing impossible to say. “I heard--last night,” she began. “Ah, the singing!” cried both ladies together. “I hope it did not keep you from your sleep, my dear,” said Mrs. Harwood. And, “I’m sure you could not hear me, and Charley’s voice is always a pleasure,” cried Gussy. Janet’s mouth was closed, and she could say no more. CHAPTER XI.