“May I sit down for a few minutes, Miss Despard? My train is not till one o’clock.” Lottie blushed crimson at this implied reproach. It might be right to be shy of him, but not to be rude to him. “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, pointing to a chair. “You took us all by surprise last night,” he said, carefully placing hers for her. “I think it was a revelation to everybody. We hear that music in the Abbey, and we suppose we understand it; till someone like you suddenly interprets it to us, and we wake up and feel that we never heard it before.” “I never knew what it was--to sing anything like that before,” said Lottie. It disturbed her even to think about it; “and it had all been so different--so----” “Commonplace? from the ridiculous to the sublime; from poor dear Aunt Caroline on her sofa to Handel fluting among the angels. It _was_ a step indeed.” “I did not mean that. It was myself I was thinking of--I had been so full of silly fancies of my own.” “But all at once the inspiration came? I should like to be capable of anything like that; but I am not. I can only listen, and worship,” said Rollo. There was fervour in his voice--a real something which was not mere fanaticism about music. And the two young people sat for a few moments in silence, a most dangerous thing to do, looking at each other--nay, not looking at each other--for Lottie did not feel either able or disposed to raise her eyes. She was the first to speak, in order to break the silence, which alarmed her, though she did not know why. “It is wonderful how the Signor plays. I never understood it in the Abbey. He seems to place you up somewhere above yourself--and make your voice come independent of you.” “Never in his life, I am sure, did he have such a beautiful compliment paid to him,” said Rollo; “but, Miss Despard, you do him too much credit. You permitted even me to accompany you--and sang just as divinely----” “Oh no,” said Lottie. Then she blushed and recollected herself. “You play very well, Mr. Ridsdale; but we could not compare those trumpery songs with----” “Trumpery songs! only Mozart and Bellini, and a few more,” he cried, with a gasp. “Ah, I know what you mean; you meant the ‘Marta’ song, which made your good friend, that good woman, cry----” “I like the ‘Last Rose of Summer’ very much. I have always liked it. I used to hear an old fiddler play it in the street when I was a child, when I was lying in the dark, trying to go to sleep. It was like a friend keeping me company; but a friend that had a breaking heart, that cried and took all my thoughts off myself--I shall never forget it,” said Lottie, the tears coming to her eyes at the recollection. “I like it better than all the rest.” “Miss Despard, do not drive me to despair. Not better than ‘Casta Diva,’ or Margaret’s song, or----”