"He began it, mamma," said Lora, carelessly. "Well, Mr. Templeton, I'm going to begin the accompaniment. Get ready."
She touched the keys with skillful fingers, waking a soft, melancholy prelude, and Howard sang in his full, rich, tenor voice:
"'Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!
Beauty passes like a breath, and love is lost in loathing;
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing—
Low, lute, low!
"'Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken;
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;
Low, my lute! oh, low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken—
Low, dear lute, low!'"
"The poet has very happily blended truth and poesy in that very pathetic song," remarked Lora, with a touch of careless scorn in her voice, as the rich notes ceased. "Well, Mr. Templeton, will you try another song?"
"No, thank you, Miss Carroll—I must be going. I have already trespassed upon your time and patience."
Lora did not gainsay the assertion.
She rose with an almost audible sigh of relief, and stood waiting for him to say good-night.
"May I come and see you again?" he asked, as he bowed over the delicate hand that wore his ruby ring.
"I—we—that is, mamma and I—are going away soon. It may not—perhaps—be convenient for us to receive you again," stammered Lora, hesitating and blushing like the veriest school-girl.