Why this perturbation that caused his hands to tremble, that caused his eyeballs to throb, as he looked and looked, and yet hardly dared to look? He was doing no harm – he was thinking no harm. These thoroughfares were open to all; the May morning was warm and fine and clear; why should not he take his way to Hyde Park as well as another? Even in furtively watching whither they went – in keeping a certain distance between them and him – there was no sort of sacrilege or outrage. If they had turned and confronted him, they could not have recognised him: it was almost impossible they could have observed the young man who was half concealed by the curtains of the room in Musselburgh House. And yet – yet – there was some kind of tremulous wonder in his being so near her – in his being allowed, without let or hindrance, to gaze upon the long-flowing masses of hair, that caught a sheen of light here and there, and stirred with the stirring of the wind. And then the simple grace and ease of her carriage: she held her head more erect in these quiet thoroughfares; sometimes she turned a little to address the old man, and then her refined and sensitive profile became visible, and also the mysterious charm of the long and drooping lashes. He noticed that she never looked at any passer-by; but she did not seem so sad on this fresh morning; she was talking a good deal – and cheerfully, as he hoped. He wished for more sunlight – that the day might brighten all around her – that the warm airs might be sweet with the blossoms of the opening summer.
For now they were nearing Hyde Park; and away before them stretched the pale blue vistas of atmosphere under the wide-swaying branches of the maples. They crossed to Grosvenor Gate; they left the dull roar of Park Lane behind them; they passed beneath the trees; and emerged upon the open breadths of verdure, intersected by pale pink roads. Though summer had come prematurely, this was almost an April-like day: there was a south-west wind blowing, and flattening the feathery grasses; there were shafts of misty sunlight striking here and there; while a confusion of clouds, purple and grey and silver, floated heavily through the surcharged sky. The newly-shorn sheep were quite white – for London. A smart young maidservant idly shoving a perambulator had a glory of Spring flowers in her bonnet. The mild air blowing about brought grateful odours – was it from the green-sward all around, or from the more distant masses of hawthorn white and red?
The old man, marching with uplifted head, and sometimes swinging the stick that he carried, was singing aloud in the gaiety of his heart, though Vincent, carefully keeping at a certain distance, could not make out either the words or the air. The young girl, on the other hand, was simply looking at the various objects, animate and inanimate, around her – at the birds picking up straws or shreds of wool for the building of their nests, at the wind shivering through the grey spikelets of the grass, at the ever-changing conformation of the clouds, at the swaying of the branches of the trees; while from time to time there came floating over from Knightsbridge the sound of a military band. No, she did not appear so sad as she had done the day before; and there was something cheerful, too, about her costume – about the simple dress of dark blue-and-white-striped linen and the sailor's hat of cream-white with a dark blue band. Mary, he made sure her name was – Mary Bethune. Only a name to him; nothing more: a strange, indefinable, immeasurable distance lay between them; not for him was it to draw near to her, to breathe the same air with her, to listen to the low tones of her voice, to wait for the uplifting of the mysteriously shaded eyes. And as for fancies become more wildly audacious? – what would be the joy of any human being who should be allowed to touch – with trembling fingertips – with reverent and almost reluctant fingertips – the soft splendour of that shining and beautiful hair?
George Bethune and his granddaughter made their way down to the Serpentine, and took their places on a bench there, while the old man proceeded to draw from his pocket a newspaper, which he leisurely began to read. The girl had nothing to do but sit placidly there and look around her – at the shimmering stretch of water, at the small boys sailing their mimic yachts, at the quacking ducks and yelping dogs, at the ever-rustling and murmuring trees. Vincent Harris had now dared to draw a little nearer; but still he felt that she was worlds and worlds away. How many yards were there between him and her? – not yards at all, but infinities of space! They were strangers to each other; no spoken word was possible between them; they might go through to the end of life with this impalpable barrier for ever dividing them. And yet it seemed a sort of miraculous thing that he was allowed to come so close – that he could almost tell the individual threads of that soft-shining hair. Then, more than once, too, he had caught a glimpse of her raised eyes, as she turned to address her grandfather; and that was a startling and bewildering experience. It was not their mere beauty; though, to be sure, their clear and limpid deeps seemed all the more clear and limpid because of the touch of sun-tan on her complexion; it was rather that they were full of all ineffable things – simplicity, submission, gratitude, affection, and even, as he rejoiced to think, some measure of mild enjoyment. For the moment there was little of that pensive and resigned look that had struck him in the figure standing with bowed head at Lord Musselburgh's table. She appeared to be pleased with the various life around her and its little incidents; she regarded the sailing of the miniature yachts with interest. When a brace of duck went whirring by overhead, she followed their flight until they were lost to view; she watched two small urchins furtively fishing for minnows, with an eye on the distant park-keeper. There was a universal rustling of leaves in the silence; and sometimes, when the wind blew straight across, the music of the military band became more distinct.
How long they remained there, the young man did not know; it was a golden morning, and all too brief. But when at last they did rise to go he was very nearly caught; for instead of returning by the way they had come, they struck westward; and he suddenly saw with alarm that there was no time for him to get behind one of the elms. All he could do was to turn aside, and lower his eyes. They passed within a few yards of him; he could distinctly hear the old man singing, with a fine note of bravado in his voice, "The standard on the braes o' Mar, is up and streaming rarely"; then, when he was sure they were some way off, he made bold to raise his eyes again. Had she taken any notice of him? He hoped not. He did not wish her to think him a spy; he did not wish to be known to her at all. He should be her constant neighbour, her companion almost, without any consciousness on her part. And again and again he marvelled that the landlady in the little thoroughfare should have given him those treasures of rooms – should have put such happiness within his reach – for so trivial a sum. Seventeen shillings a week! – when each moment would be a diamond, and each evening hour a string of diamonds!
But nevertheless there were his studies to be thought of; so now he walked away down to Grosvenor Place, gathered his books together, and took them up in a hansom to his newly-acquired lodgings. That afternoon he did loyally stick to his work – or tried to do so, though, in fact, his ears were alert for any sound coming from the other side of the way. He had left his window open; one of the windows of the opposite house was also left open. Occasionally he would lay down Draper's Civil War in America, and get up and stretch his legs, and from a convenient shelter send a swift glance of scrutiny across the street. There was no sign. Perhaps they had gone out again, shopping, or visiting, or, as likely as not, to look at the people riding and driving in the Park. He returned to Draper, and to President Jackson's Proclamation – but with less of interest: his annotations became fewer. He was listening as well as reading.
Then all of a sudden there flashed into his brain a suggestion – a suggestion that had little to do with Clay's Compromise, or the project to arrest Mr. Calhoun. On the previous evening it had seemed to him as though the unseen violinist were speaking to him: why, then, should he not answer, in the same language? There could be no offence in that – no impertinence: it would be merely one vague voice responding to the other, the unknown communicating in this fleshless and bloodless way with the unknown. And now he was abundantly grateful to his aunt for having insisted on his including music among his various studies and accomplishments: a use had come for his slight proficiency at last: most modern languages he knew, but he had never expected to be called upon to speak in this one. And yet what more simple, as between neighbours? He was not thrusting his society on any one; he was invading no privacy; he was demanding no concession of friendship or even acquaintance. But at least the dreadful gulf of silence would be bridged over by this mystic means.
It was nearly six o'clock; London was busy when he went out on this hot evening. He walked along to a music-publisher's place in Regent-street; and hired a piano on the express stipulation that it was to be in his rooms within one hour. Then, as he had only had a biscuit for lunch, and wished to leave himself untrammelled later on, he turned into a restaurant, and dined there, simply enough, and had a cigarette and a look at the evening papers. Thereafter he strolled back to his lodgings, and took to his book, though his thoughts were inclined to wander now and again.
Twilight had fallen; but he did not light the gas. Once, for a brief second or two, he had quietly run his fingers over the keys of the piano, to learn if it was tolerably in tune; then the room relapsed into silence again. And was there to be silence on the other side as well? He waited and listened, and waited and listened, in vain. Perhaps, while he was idling away his time in the Regent-street restaurant, they had come out from the house and gone off to some theatre. The street was so still now that he could almost have heard any one speaking in that room on the other side; but there was no sound.
Then his heart leapt and his brain grew giddy. Here was that low-breathing and vibrating wail again: – and was she alone now? – in the gathering darkness? He recognised the air; it was "Auld Robin Gray;" but never before had he known that it was so beautiful and so ineffably sad as well. Slowly she played and simply; it was almost like a human voice; only that the trembling strings had a penetrating note of their own. And when she ceased, it seemed to him that it would be profanation to break in upon the hushed and sacred stillness.
And yet was he not to answer her, in the only speech that could not offend? Was he to act the coward, when there offered a chance of his establishing some subtle link with, her, of sending a message, of declaring his presence in this surely unobtrusive fashion? Quickly he sat down to the piano; and, in rather a nervous and anxious fashion, began. He was not a brilliant performer – anything but that; but he had a light touch and a sensitive ear; and he played with feeling and grace. It was "Kathleen Mavourneen" – and a sort of appeal in its way, did she but remember the words. He played the melody over only once, slowly and as sympathetically as he could; then he rose and retired from the piano; and stood in the darkness, listening.
Alas! there was no response. What had he done? He waited, wondering; but all was still in the little street. It was as if some bird, some mellow-throated thrush or nightingale, had been warbling to itself in the dim security of the leaves, and been suddenly startled and silenced by an alien sound, not knowing what that might portend.
CHAPTER III.
AN APPROACH
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in!" called out old George Bethune.
There appeared a middle-aged man, of medium height, who looked like a butler out of employment; he was pale and flabby of face, with nervous eyes expressive of a sort of imbecile amiability.
"Ah, Hobson!" said Mr. Bethune, in his lofty manner. "Well?"
The landlady's husband came forward in the humblest possible fashion; and his big, prominent, vacuous eyes seemed to be asking for a little consideration and goodwill.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, in the most deplorable of Cockney accents, "I 'umbly beg your pardon for making so bold; but knowing as you was so fond of everything Scotch, I took the liberty of bringing you a sample of something very special – a friend of mine, sir, recommended it – and then says I to him, 'Lor bless ye, I don't know nothing about Highland whiskey; but there's a gentleman in our 'ouse who is sure to be a judge, and if I can persuade him to try it, he'll be able to say if it's the real sort.'"
"All right, Hobson," said George Bethune, in his grand way. "Some other time I will see what it is like."
"Thank you, sir, thank you!" said the ex-butler, with earnest gratitude; and he went and placed the bottle on the sideboard. Then he came back, and hesitatingly took out an envelope from his pocket. "And if I might ask another favour, sir. You see, sir, in this 'ot weather people won't go to the theatres; and they're not doing much; and my brother-in-law, the theatrical agent, he's glad to get the places filled up, to make a show, sir, as you might say. And I've got two dress-circle seats, if you and the young lady was thinking of going to the theatre to-morrow night. It's a great favour, sir, as my brother-in-law said to me as he was a-giving me the tickets and arsking me to get 'em used."
He lied; for there was no brother-in-law and no theatrical agent in the case. He himself had that very afternoon honestly and straightforwardly purchased the tickets at the box-office, as he had done on more than one occasion before, out of the money allowed him for personal expenses by his wife; so that he had to look forward to a severe curtailment of his gin and tobacco for weeks to come.
"Thanks – thanks!" said George Bethune, as he lit his long clay pipe. "I will see what my granddaughter says when she comes in – unless you would like to use the tickets yourself."
"Oh, no, sir, begging your pardon, sir," was the instant rejoinder. "When I 'ave a evening out I go to the Oxbridge music-'all – perhaps it's vanity, sir – but when Charley Coldstream gets a hangcore, I do like to hear some on 'em call out, 'Says Wolseley, says he!' Ah, sir, that was the proudest moment of my life when I see Charley Coldstream come on the stage and begin to sing verse after verse, and the people cheering; and I owed it all to you, sir; it was you, sir, as advised me to send it to him – "
"A catching refrain – a catching refrain," said the old gentleman, encouragingly. "Just fitted to get hold of the public ear."
"Why, sir," said Hobson, with a fatuous little chuckle of delight, "this werry afternoon, as I was coming down Park-street, I 'eard a butcher's boy a-singing it – I did indeed, sir – as clear as could be I 'eard the words,
'Says Wolseley, says he,
To Arabi,
You can fight other chaps, but you can't fight me.'
– every word I 'eard. But would you believe it, sir, when I was in the Oxbridge music-'all I could 'ardly listen, I was so frightened, and my ears a-buzzin, and me 'ardly able to breathe. Lor, sir, that was a experience! Nobody looked at me, and that was a mercy – I couldn't ha' stood it. Even the chairman, as was not more than six yards from me, 'e didn't know who I was, and not being acquainted with him, I couldn't offer him somethink, which I should have considered it a proud honour so to do on sich an occasion. And if I might make so bold, sir – "
He was fumbling in his breast-pocket.
"What – more verses?" said Mr. Bethune, good-naturedly. "Well, let's see them. But take a seat, man, take a seat."
Rather timidly he drew a chair in to the table; and then he said with appealing eyes:
"But wouldn't you allow me, sir, to fetch you a little drop of the whiskey – I assure you it's the best!"
"Oh, very well – very well; but bring two tumblers; single drinking is slow work."
In a few seconds those two curiously-assorted companions – the one massive and strong-built, impressive in manner, measured and emphatic of speech, the other feeble and fawning, at once eager and vacuous, his face ever ready to break into a maudlin smile – were seated in confabulation together, with some sheets of scribbled paper between.
"And if you will excuse my being so bold, sir," continued Hobson, with great humility, "but I 'ave been reading the little volume of Scotch songs you lent me, and – and – "
"Trying your hand at that, too?"
"Only a verse, sir."
Mr. Bethune took up the scrap of paper; and read aloud:
"O leese me on the toddy,
the toddy,
the toddy,
O leese me on the toddy,
We'll hae a willie-waught!"
"Well, yes," he said, with rather a doubtful air, "you've got the phrases all right – except the willie-waught, and that is a common error. To tell you the truth, my friend, there is no such thing as a willie-waught. Waught is a hearty drink; a richt gude-willie waught is a drink with right good will. Willie-waught is nothing – a misconception – a printer's blunder. However, phrases do not count for much. Scotch phrases do not make Scotch song. It is not the provincial dialect – it is the breathing spirit that is the life" – and therewith he repeated, in a proud manner, as if to crush this poor anxious poet by the comparison,
"I see her in the dewy flower,
Sae lovely, sweet, and fair;
I hear her voice in ilka bird
Wi' music charm the air;
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,
Nor yet a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o' my Jean."
"Beg pardon, sir – Miss Bethune?" said Hobson, enquiringly; for he evidently thought these lines were of the old gentleman's own composition. And then, as he received no answer, for Mr. Bethune had turned to his pipe, he resumed, "Ah, I see, sir, I 'ave not been successful. Too ambitious – too ambitious. It was you yourself, sir, as advised me to write about what I knew; and – and in fact, sir, what I see is that there is nothing like patriotism. Lor, sir, you should see them young fellers at the Oxbridge – they're as brave as lions – especially when they've 'ad a glass. Talk about the French! The French ain't in it, when we've got our spirit up. We can stand a lot, sir, yes, we can; but don't let them push us too far. Not too far. It will be a bad day for them when they do. An Englishman ain't given to boasting; but he's a terror when his back's up – and a Scotchman too, sir, I beg your pardon – I did not mean anything – I intended to include the Scotchman too, I assure you, sir. There's a little thing here, sir," he continued modestly, "that I should like to read to you, if I may make so bold. I thought of sending it to Mr. Coldstream – I'm sure it would take – for there's some fight in the Englishman yet – and in the Scotchman too, sir," he instantly added.
"A patriotic poem? – Well?"
Thus encouraged the pleased poet moistened his lips with the whiskey and water he had brought for himself and began —
"Where's the man would turn and fly?
Where's the man afraid to die?
It isn't you, it isn't I.
No, my lads, no, no!"
Then his voice had a more valiant ring in it still:
"Who will lead us to the fray?
Who will sweep the foe away?
Who will win the glorious day?
Of England's chivalry?"
It is true he said, "Oo will sweep the foe awye?" but these little peculiarities were lost in the fervour of his enthusiasm.
"Roberts – Graham – Buller – Wood —"
He paused after each name as if listening for the thunderous cheering of the imaginary audience.
"And many another 'most as good:
They're the men to shed their blood
For their country!"
Then there was a touch of pathos:
"Fare thee well, love, and adieu!"
But that was immediately dismissed:
"Fiercer thoughts I have than you;
We will drive the dastard crew
Into slavery!"
And then he stretched forth his right arm, and declaimed in loud and portentous tones —
"See the bloody tented-field;
Look the foe – they yield! – they yield!
Hurrah! hurrah! our glory's sealed!
Three cheers for victory!"
Suddenly his face blanched. For at this moment the door opened: a tall woman appeared – with astonishment and indignation only too legible in her angular features.
"Hobson!" she exclaimed; and at this awful sound the bold warrior seemed to collapse into a limp rag. "I am surprised – I am indeed surprised! Really, sir, how can you encourage him in such impudence? Seated at your own table and drinking too, I declare," she went on, as she lifted up the deserted tumbler – for her bellicose husband had hastily picked up his MSS. and vanished from the room. "Really, sir, such familiarity!"
"In the republic of letters, my good Mrs. Hobson," said Mr. Bethune with a smile, "all men are equal. I have been much interested in some of your husband's writings."
"Oh, sir, don't put sich things in his 'ead!" she said, as she proceeded to lay the cloth for dinner. "He's a fool, and that's bad enough; but if so be as you put things in his 'ead, and he giving of hisself airs, it'll be hawful! What good he is to anybody, I don't know. He won't clean a winder or black a boot even."
"How can you expect it?" George Bethune said, in perfect good humour. "Manual labour would be a degradation. Men of genius ought to be supported by the State."
"In the workus, I suppose," she said, sharply – but here Maisrie Bethune came upstairs and into the room, carrying some parcels in her hand, and instantly the landlady's face changed its expression, and became as amiable and smiling as the gaunt features would allow.
At dinner the old man told his granddaughter that he had procured (he did not say how) places at the – Theatre for the following evening, and seemed to be pleased about this little break in their quiet lives.
"But why did you go to such expense, grandfather?" Maisrie said. "You know I am quite happy enough in spending the evening at home with you. And every day now I ask myself when I am to begin copying the poems – for the volume, you know. You have sent for them to America, haven't you? But really you have such a wonderful memory, grandfather, I believe you could repeat them all – and I could write them down – and let the printers have them. I was so glad when you let me help you with the book you published in Montreal; and you know my writing is clear enough; you remember what the foreman printer said? Don't you think we could begin to-night, grandfather? It pleases you to repeat those beautiful verses – you are so fond of them – and proud of them because they are written by Scotchmen – and I am sure it would be a delight to me to write them out for you."
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, fretfully, "but not to-night. You're always in such a hurry, Maisrie." And then he added, in a gentler way, "Well, it is a wonderful blessing, a good memory. I never want for a companion, when I've a Scotch air or a Scotch song humming through my brain. On the darkest and wettest day, here in this big city, what have you to do but think of and at once you have before you golden banks, and meadows, and June skies, and all else is forgotten. Indeed, lass, Scotland has become for me such a storehouse of beautiful things – in imagination – that I am almost afraid to return to it, in case the reality might disappoint me. No, no, it could not disappoint me: I treasure every inch of the sacred soil: but sometimes I wonder if you will recognise the magic and witchery of hill and glen. As for me, there is naught else I fear now; there are no human ties I shall have to take up again; I shall not have to mourn the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"
'The broom, the yellow, yellow broom,
The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,'
"What is that, grandfather?"
"If you had been brought up in Scotland, Maisrie, you would know what the bigging o' bourocks is among children – play-houses in the sand. But sometimes the word is applied to huts or cottages, as it is in the title of Hugh Ainslie's poem. That poem is one that I shall be proud to give a place to in my collection," he continued, with an air of importance. "Hugh Ainslie is no more with us; but his countrymen, whether in America or at home, are not likely to forget the 'Bourocks o' Bargeny.'"
"Can you remember it, grandfather?"
"Can I not?" said he; and therewith he repeated the lines, never faltering once for a phrase —
"I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair
'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny;
I've found ye on the banks o' Ayr,
But sair ye're altered, Jeanie.
I left ye like the wanton lamb
That plays 'mang Hadyed's heather;
I've found ye noo a sober dame —
A wife and eke a mither.
I left ye 'mang the leaves sae green
In rustic weed befittin';
I've found ye buskit like a queen,
In painted chaumer sittin'.
Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see,
Ye're wiser, nae doubt, Jeanie;
But oh! I'd rather met wi' thee
'Mang the bourocks of Bargeny!"
"It's very sad, grandfather," she said, wistfully.
"The way of the world – the way of the world," said he; and observing that she had finished and was waiting for him, he forthwith rose and went to the mantelpiece for his pipe. "There's many a true story of that kind. Well, Maisrie, you'll just get your violin, and we'll have the 'Broom o' the Cowdenknowes?'" And while she went to fetch the violin, and as he cut his tobacco, he sang in a quavering voice —
"O the broom, the bonnie, bonnie broom,
The broom o' the Cowdenknowes,
I wish I were at hame again
Where the broom sae sweetly grows!"
And then he went to the window, to smoke his pipe in peace and quiet, while Maisrie, seated further back in the shadow of the room, played for him the well-known air. Did she guess – and fear – that she might have an audience of more than one? At all events her doubts were soon resolved: when she had ceased, and after a second or so of silence, there came another sound into the prevailing hush – it was one of the Songs without Words, and it was being played with considerable delicacy and charm.
"Hallo," said Mr. Bethune, when he heard the first low-rippling notes, "have we a musical neighbour now?"
"Yes, grandfather," Maisrie replied, rather timidly. "Last night, when you were out, some one played."
"Ah, a music-mistress, I dare say. Poor thing – perhaps all alone – and wishing to be friendly in this sort of fashion."
They listened without further speech until the last notes had gradually died away.
"Now, Maisrie, it is your turn!"
"Oh, no, grandfather!" she said, hastily.
"Why not?"
"It would be like answering – to a stranger."
"And are we not all strangers?" he said, gently. "I think it is a very pretty idea, if that is what is meant. We'll soon see. Come, Maisrie; something more than the plashing of a southern fountain – something with northern fire in it. Why not 'Helen of Kirkconnell'?"
The girl was very obedient; she took up her violin; and presently she was playing that strangely simple air that nevertheless is about as proud and passionate and piteous as the tragic story to which it is wedded. Perhaps the stranger over there did not know the ballad; but George Bethune knew it only too well; and his voice almost broke into a sob as he said, when she had finished —
"Ah, Maisrie, it was no music-master taught you that; it was born in your nature. Sometimes I wonder if a capacity for intense sympathy means an equal capacity for suffering; it is sad if it should be so; a thick skin would be wholesomer – as far as I have seen the world; and few have seen more of it. Well, what has our neighbour to say?"
Their unseen companion on the other side of the little thoroughfare responded with a waltz of Chopin's – a mysterious, elusive sort of a thing, that seemed to fade away into the dark rather than to cease. Maisrie appeared disinclined to continue this do ut des programme; but her grandfather overruled her; and named the airs for her to play, one by one, in alternation with those coming from the open window opposite. At last she said she was tired. It was time for the gas to be lit, and the hot water brought up for her grandfather's toddy. So she closed the window and pulled down the blind; lit up the room; rang the bell for the hot water; and then placidly sate down to her knitting, whilst her grandfather, brewing himself an unmistakable gude-willie waught, and lighting another pipe, proceeded to entertain her with a rambling disquisition upon the world at large, but especially upon his own travels and experiences therein, his philosophical theories, and his reminiscences of the Scotch countryside ballads of his youth.
That mystic and enigmatic conversation with their neighbour over the way was not continued on the following evening, for the old man and his granddaughter went to the theatre; but on the next night again it was resumed; and thereafter, on almost every evening, the two windows replied to each other, as the twilight deepened into dusk. And Maisrie was less reluctant now – she almost took this little concert à deux as a matter of course. For one thing, the stranger, whoever he or she might be, did not seem in any way anxious to push the acquaintance any further; no one ever appeared at that open window; nor had she ever encountered any one coming out as she stood on the doorstep waiting for her grandfather. As for him, he still maintained that the new occupant of those rooms must be a woman – perhaps some shy creature, willing to think that she had friendly neighbours, and yet afraid to show herself. Besides, the music that came in response to Maisrie's Scotch airs was hardly what a man would have chosen. The stranger over there seemed chiefly fond of Mendelssohn, Chopin, and Mozart; though occasionally there was an excursion into the Volkslieder domain – "Zu Strassburg auf der Schanz," "Es ritten drei Reiter zum Thore hinaus," "Von meinetn Bergli muss i scheiden," or something of that kind; whereas, if it had been a man who occupied those rooms, surely they would have heard – during the day, for example – a fine bold ditty like "Simon the Cellarer," "The Bay of Biscay," or "The Friar of Orders Gray," with a strident voice outroaring the accompaniment? Maisrie answered nothing to these arguments; but in spite of herself, when she had to cross the room for something or other, her eyes would seek that mysteriously vacant window, with however rapid and circumspect a glance. And always in vain. Moreover, the piano was never touched during the day: the stranger invariably waited for the twilight before seeking to resume that subtle link of communication.