Everyone has experienced, I suppose for a few wonderful moments, now and then, a glow of seemingly causeless happiness, in which the earth and its people are glorified--peace and sunlight rest on everything--the spirit of music and love is in the air, and the heart itself sings for joy. In the light of this celestial illusion she stood now by the piano, turning over the pages of poor Tom Moore, as I have said, when a low pleasant voice near her said-- 'I was so glad to see that Dorcas had prevailed, and that you were here. We both agreed that you are too much a recluse in that Der Frieschutz Glen--at least, for your friends' pleasure; and owe it to us all to appear now and then in this upper world.' 'Excelsior, Miss Lake,' interposed dapper little Mr. Buttle, with a smirk; 'I think this little bit of music--it was got up, you know, by that old quiz, Dowager Lady Chelford--was really not so bad--a rather good idea, after all, Miss Lake. Don't you?' Poor Mr. Buttle did not know Lord Chelford, and thus shooting his 'arrow o'er the house,' he 'hurt his brother.' Chelford turned away, and bowed and smiled to one or two friends at the other side of the room. 'Yes, the music was very pretty, and some of the songs were quite charmingly sung. I agree with you--we are very much obliged to Lady Chelford--that is her son, Lord Chelford.' 'Oh!' said Buttle, whose smirk vanished on the instant in a very red and dismal vacancy, 'I--I'm afraid he'll think me shockingly rude.' And in a minute more Buttle was gone. Miss Lake again looked down upon the page, and as she did so, Lord Chelford turned and said-- 'You are a worshipper of Tom Moore, Miss Lake?' 'An admirer, perhaps--certainly no worshipper. Yet, I can't say. Perhaps I do worship; but if so, it is a worship strangely mixed with contempt.' And she laughed a little. 'A kind of adoring which I fancy belongs properly to the lords of creation, and which we of the weaker sex have no right to practise.' 'Miss Lake is pleased to be ironical to-night,' he said, with a smile. 'Am I? I dare say. All women are. Irony is the weapon of cowardice, and cowardice the vice of weakness. Yet I think I was naturally bold and true. I hate cowardice and deception even in myself--I hate perfidy--I hate _fraud_.' She tapped a little emphasis upon the floor with her white satin shoe, and her eyes flashed with a dark and angry meaning among the crowd at the other end of the room, as if for a second or two following an object to whom in some way the statement applied.