night. If he looked, it would vanish away. He sat very still, and shaded his eyes with his hand. The curtain rose slowly, and he looked again. It was the great act for the prima donna. Irvine was half surprised to see the same face still-to hear the well-known voice singing pure and true. She looked childlike on the stage. She seemed artless but confident as a favourite child, with the heart of a woman and the enthusiasm of an artist. Stolid Britons smiled as they found themselves swayed by this innocent empress. Then they forgot to smile. It was as if a nightingale had found in the midst of her song a human heart, and the hearers of the bird stood smitten with sudden awe before unsuspected depths in themselves. There was a storm of applause as the great scene ended—such a roar of delight and affection as is heard from Englishmen alone when they forget to check their feelings. No man waited for his neighbour or feared to be conspicuous. It was overwhelming. Irvine turned pale and clutched the arms of his chair. He was swept away by her triumph. He was like a man alone far out to sea, hurled on by the tempest. Above him was a single star, on which his gaze was fixed. Slowly it changed before his eyes, and with no loss of brightness; it was a human face

the face of Katharine Adare. A sudden terror seized the dreamer. He thought that he was going mad. His head was on fire and his pulses were throbbing. He got up suddenly and passed quickly out of the theatre into the outer air. The night was close and sultry. London had become suddenly insupportable. He remembered the river-side village of Sunleigh with a sharp sense of contrast. By the river he would be cool and calm again. Truly, the imp of restlessness, who had haunted this youth from his cradle, had sprung on a sudden into a full-sized demon. He could not stay. He might yet catch the last train to Sunleigh. He dashed at a hansom. He sprang up the stairs of his hotel, hastily filled a bag, scrawled his address on a piece of paper, and sped down again to the hall.

"Send my things after me to-morrow," he said, thrusting his address and some money into the hand of the porter; "and the bill. I can't stop now. I must catch the train."

"I'll attend to it, sir," said the porter, who was accustomed to eccentric departures; and added, "There has been a gentleman to see you, as said he'd call again, Mr Harefel."

Irvine only half heard the name as he ordered his cabman to drive quick.

A few minutes later Ned Harefel returned to the hotel, and asked if his cousin had come in. He was alarmed by his departure. He dared not think what Irvine Dale might do under a sudden impulse.

"He looked uncommon wild," said the porter, whose monotonous duties were relieved by little excitement.

"Is there a train to-night for Sunleigh?" asked Harefel.

"Twelve o'clock. You might catch it," said the porter, briefly.

Ned glanced at the clock, made a rapid calculation, and dashed out of the hotel. He reached the station just in time to spring into a carriage as the train began to move. He saw a pair of burning eyes fastened on his face, and knew that he was alone with Irvine Dale for the first time since their bitter parting on the terrace by the river.

241

CHAPTER XXI.

TUESDAY.

IN a pleasant room above a quiet street were Mr Sebastian Archer and his daughter. The windows were open, and the morning sunlight came in bright but not glaring. Breakfast had been cleared away; and the gentleman, placed in the easiest chair where he could catch a glimpse of cool green trees, was smoking an exquisite cigar. The Manetti was busy. She had suddenly remembered a neglected duty, and was washing the delicate china which her father loved. Sebastian was a very Don Giovanni of expensive tastes.

"I did better last night, padre?" said Miss Marion, careful over the bowl.

"You were good," said her father, slowly: “you sang with more heart." He took out his cigar, dropped the ash into an old Dresden saucer which

Q

stood at his elbow, and added, softly, “Irvine Dale was there."

"I saw him," said she, as she stooped over a choice piece. "It is very strange, padre."

"What is strange, Bellina?"

'I was thinking of him in the overture-I don't know why-and when I went on, I saw him first of all; and I think I knew that I should see him."

"You think," said Mr Archer, drily; and added, after a pause," He looked uncommonly wild."

"You saw it too? I was quite frightened for him. Mr Kerisen promised to find him. Where is Mr Kerisen? why is he not here?" She spoke sharply, and with that abruptness and slight foreign accent which often came when she was moved.

Her father smiled.

"You task our poor Kerisen," he said. "Will he bring Dale here?"

"No, no," she answered, quickly; "he must not come till I am perfect in Lisa. He helps me to sing, but he would hinder my study."

"As you wish, Carina," murmured Sebastian, with lips more seriously busy with his cigar. "Poor Irvie! you should have tamed him to your hand at Amalfi, my little one."