"Not well-informed, uncle?" said the daughter of the house, looking up wide-eyed and amused, "why, I thought him most interesting." "Oh! dear me, no, my dear. Quite ignorant of the most everyday matters. I just asked him--" "Are you going to give us some music, Miss Luttrell?" said a deep, rich voice behind them, and Millicent turned round smiling. "I was looking out two of your songs, Mr Hallam. You will sing something?" "If you wish it," he said quietly, and there was nothing impressive in his manner. "Oh, we should all be glad. Mamma is so fond of your songs." "I must make the regular stipulation," said Mr Hallam smiling. "Banking people are very exacting: they do nothing without being paid." "You mean that I must sing as well," said Millicent. "Oh, certainly. And," she added eagerly, "Mr Bayle is musical. I will ask him to sing." "Yes, do," said Hallam, with a shade of eagerness in his voice. "He cannot refuse you." She did not know why, but as Millicent Luttrell heard these words, something like regret at her proposal crossed her mind, and she glanced at where Bayle was seated, listening to Mrs Trampleasure, who was talking to him loudly--so loudly that her voice reached their ears. "I should be very glad indeed, Mr Bayle, if, when you call upon us, you would look through Edgar and Edmund's Latin exercises. I'm quite sure that the head master at the grammar school does not pay the attention to the boys that he should." To wait until Mrs Trampleasure came to the end of a conversational chapter, would have been to give up the singing, so Millicent sat down to the little old-fashioned square piano, running her hands skilfully over the keys, and bringing forth harmonious sounds. But they were the _aigue_ wiry tones of the modern zither, and Christie Bayle bent forward as if attracted by the sweet face thrown up by the candles, and turned slightly towards Hallam, dark, handsome, and self-possessed, standing with one hand resting on the instrument. "I don't like music!" said Mrs Trampleasure, in a very slightly subdued voice. "Indeed!" said Bayle starting, for his thoughts were wandering, and an unpleasant, indefinable feeling was stealing over him. "I think it a great waste of time," continued Mrs Trampleasure. "Do you like it, Mr Bayle?" "Well, I must confess I am very fond of it," he replied. "But you don't play anything," said the lady with quite a look of horror. "I--I play the flute--a little," faltered the curate. "Well," said Mrs Trampleasure austerely, "we learn a great many habits when we are young, Mr Bayle, that we leave off when we grow older. You are youngs Mr Bayle." He looked up in her face as if she had wounded him, her words went so deeply home, and he replied softly: "Yes, I'm afraid I am very young." Just then the doctor came and laid his hand upon Mrs Trampleasure's lips.