"I would rather not ask him, mamma dear," said Millicent at the other side of the room. "But you had better, my dear. I know he is musical, and he might feel slighted." "Oh, yes, he's a good fellow, my dear; I like him," said the doctor bluffly. "Ask him." With a curious shrinking sensation that seemed somehow vaguely connected with Mr Hallam from the bank, and his eagerness earlier in the evening, Millicent crossed to where Bayle was seated, and asked him if he would sing. "Oh, no," he said hastily, "I have no voice!" "But we hear that you are musical, Mr Bayle," said Millicent in her sweet, calm way. "Oh, yes, I am. Yes, I am a little musical." "Pray sing then," she said, now that she had taken the step, forgetting the diffident feeling; "we are very simple people here, and so glad to have a fresh recruit in our narrow ranks." "Yes, pray sing, Mr Bayle; we should be so charmed." "I--er--I really--" "Oh, but do, Mr Bayle," said Miss Heathery again sweetly. "I think you will oblige us, Mr Bayle," said Millicent smiling; and as their eyes met, if the request had been to perform the act of Marcus Curtius on foot, and with a reasonable chance of finding water at the bottom to break the fall, Christie Bayle would have taken the plunge. "Have you anything I know?" he said despairingly. "I know," cried Miss Heathery, with a sort of peck made in bird-like playfulness. "Mr Bayle can sing `They bid me forget thee.'" "Full many a shaft at random sent, hits," et cetera. This was a chance shot, and it struck home. "I think--er--perhaps, I could sing that," stammered Bayle, and then in a fit of desperation--"I'll try." "I have it among my music, Millicent dear. May I play the accompaniment?" Miss Heathery meant to look winning, but she made Bayle shiver. "If you will be so good, Miss Heathery;" and the piece being found and spread out, Christie Bayle, perspiring far more profusely than when he was using the doctor's spade, stood listening to the prelude, and then began to sing, wishing that the dead silence around had been broken up by a hurricane, or the loudest thunder that ever roared. Truth to tell, it was a depressing performance of a melancholy song. Bayle's voice was not bad, but his extreme nervousness paralysed him, and the accompaniment would have driven the best vocalist frantic. It was a dismal failure, and when, in the midst of a pleasant little chorus of "Thank you's" Christie Bayle left the piano, he felt as if he had disgraced himself for ever in the eyes of King's Castor, above all in those of this sweetly calm and beautiful woman who seemed like some Muse of classic days come back to life. Every one smiled kindly, and Mrs Luttrell came over, called him "my dear" in her motherly way, and thanked him again. "Only want practice and confidence, sir," said the doctor. "Exactly," said Sir Gordon; "practise, sir, and you'll soon beat Hallam there."