Kind, pitying Heaven, by death, or worse,
Before I love such things again.”
Sir Harold never forgot those words, and they rang in his ears, the requiem of all his dead hopes!
“Has the kind signor loved one who is frail?” the girl whispered, softly.
“Once more sing to me,” was his reply, and the man at the harmonium played the prelude, glad to have so generous a patron, though he occasionally cast uneasy glances toward his daughter.
Sir Harold was rudely awakened from the spell that the youthful singer had cast about him by the metallic tones of his cousin, Margaret Nugent, who had entered the room unobserved.
“My dear Harold,” she was saying. “What is the meaning of this extempore concert? What a sweet voice the girl has!”
The baronet turned as the musicians went away, the girl casting back at him pitying glances from her liquid black eyes.
“And pretty, too, is she not?” continued Margaret. “Why, goodness, Harold! What is wrong with you? Is it the old story—the first quarrel?”
“Do not jest, Margaret,” Sir Harold groaned. “I know that, in a measure, you have been Lady Elaine’s confidante, but I will add to all else that you may know that everything is at an end between us, and that you have just arrived here in time to say good-by.”