"I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the old moon in her arm: And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'd come to harm." The voice died away as it travelled down the space of the long room. Presently it came nearer; the verses were still going on-- "Oh, lang, lang may the ladies sit, With their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand. And lang lang may the maidens sit, With their gowd combs in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves, For them they'll see nae mair." "Betty," said a feeble little voice--a child's voice, apparently quite close to the window now--"I want you to say those two verses over again; I like them. And the one about the old moon with the new moon in her arms; isn't that pretty?" "You like that, do you, my little Jack?" said the woman's voice; a rich, low voice, so melodious in its loving tones that Stretton positively started when he heard it, for it had been carefully subdued to monotony during the recitation, and he had not realised its full sweetness. "Do you know, darling, I thought that you were asleep?" "Asleep, Betty? I never go to sleep when you are saying poetry to me. Aren't you tired of carrying me?" "I am never tired of carrying you, Jack." "My own dear, sweet Queen Bess!" There was the sound of a long, loving kiss; and then the slow pacing up and down and the recitation re-commenced. Stretton had thought that morning that nothing could induce him to interest himself again in the world's affairs; but at that moment he was conscious of the strongest possible feeling of curiosity to see the owner of so sweet a voice. The slightest movement on his part, the slightest possible push given to the window, which opened into the room like a door and was already ajar, would have enabled him to see the speakers. But he would not do this. He told himself that he ought to move away from the window, but self-government failed him a little at that point. He could not lose the opportunity of hearing that beautiful voice again. "It ought to belong to a beautiful woman," he thought, with a half smile, "but, unfortunately, Nature's gifts are distributed very sparingly sometimes. This girl, whosoever she may be--for I know she is young--has a lovely voice, and probably a crooked figure or a squint. I suppose she is Mr. Heron's daughter. Ah, here he comes!" The artist's flying grey beard and loose velvet coat were seen upon the terrace at this moment. "I cannot find the sketch," he cried, dolorously. "The servants have been tidying the place whilst I was out--confound them! You must positively stop over to-morrow and see it. This is the banqueting-room--why didn't you go in?" And he pushed wide the window which the young man had refrained from opening a single inch.