A smile, half-sad, half-mischievous, dawned in his dark eyes as he touched the keys with skillful fingers, and sang with his heart in his voice the last verse of that sweet love song, over which he and Lady Edith had quarreled when we first saw them: “When, Mary, thy love is at rest. His harp all unstrung in thy bowers; And others like him, but more blest, Shall seek to beguile thy lone hours, Thou wilt think of the days of lang syne, When Holyrood echoed the strain; And your voice sweetly mingled with mine As it never shall mingle again!” Transcriber’s Notes: This story was originally serialized in Norman L. Munro’s _New York Family Story Paper_, volume XIX, numbers 952-955 (January 2-23, 1892). A table of contents has been added by the transcriber and placed in the public domain. Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.