"Nothing," was the reply, but he, bending over her, saw the dark eyes were dim with tears.
"There," cried Lord Airlie, "you see I am right. You have positively sung yourself to tears."
He drew her from the piano, and led her to the large bay window where the roses peeped in. He held her face up to the mellow evening light, and looked gravely into her beautiful eyes.
"Tell me," he said, simply, "what has saddened you, Beatrice you have no secrets from me. What were you thinking of just now when you sang that dreamy 'Lebenwold?' Every note was like a long sigh."
"Shall you laugh if I tell you?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "I can not promise to sigh, but I will not smile."
"I was thinking what I should do if—if anything happened to part us."
"But nothing ever will happen," he said; "nothing can part us but death. I know what would happen to me if I lost you, Beatrice."
"What?" she asked, looking up into the handsome, kindly face.
"I should not kill myself," he said, "for I hold life to be a sacred gift; but I should go where the face of no other woman would smile upon me. Why do you talk so dolefully, Beatrice? Let us change the subject. Tell me where you would like to go when we are married—shall it be France, Italy, or Spain?"