"In troth not I; a woman's heart is an enigma not easy to read; but go to the North, or _elsewhere_ if you will, it irks me not! Only don't cast it in my teeth if it fails. The plan then is for you and I, L'Estrange, to start for the Towers to-morrow--you can call and see Ellen Ravensworth, and tell her how well Wentworth loves his Juana--show her his letters--I have a packet of them! Work on her jealousy, and if that doesn't do I know a plan yet." "Would to heaven he did love me still," sighed Juana, as she rose and went to the sofa, on which she threw herself down. "And when do I go to Scotland?" "You?--why next day after us, or a day later were better; you and Musgrave can travel together--he is a nice fellow--and that will give me time to arrange with Bill Stacy, who has gone north to hire Cessford's Peel, an old tower in the south of my brother's estates, which will be your barracks, my fair one, and nice quarters too! And now, Juana, sing us a song, whilst we pitch into this iced punch." The young lady opened a richly-chased case, from which she took a Spanish guitar, and sitting on an ottoman commenced tuning it--holding it in the most elegant manner, which showed off the exquisite shape of her arm and the full contour of her form. Then running her fingers over the strings, she played a wild prelude to the following song, which she delivered in a fine contralto voice-- SONG. No, let me smile no more! there are No joys in store for me, And I grow like some erring star In dark profundity; Which, shorn of every ray, Still rolls its wonted course, And, shrouded in remorse, Hangs unseen night and day! No, let me smile no more! the hour Of early bliss is past, And I grow like some faded flower That drooped before the blast; Which wears the selfsame form, Although by blight consumed, With which it brightly bloomed Before that withering storm! No, let me smile no more! the beam Of joy would be but glassed In the cold bosom of the stream That froze in winter's blast; Which, though it look above, Gains not those starry heights, And but reflects the lights Whose warmth it cannot prove! "Very pretty," said L'Estrange,--"but how melancholy all your songs are." "How could they be else than melancholy, when the heart is sad?" answered the lady. "I must teach you some more lively airs,--for, by Heaven! you have a rare voice," said the Captain. "One like this"--but ere he began, a loud ring announced the arrival of the carriage with Sir Richard Musgrave--"I'll sing it another time. Ha! old fellow, how are you?--well, it is all planned, at least L'Estrange has got everything cut and dried! He and I start for the Towers to-morrow, and you and Juana must follow in two or three days."