studio, and the music was swelling up my heart,
and I could play out grand with all my soul,
then he used to come and say, 'Hurry, little
Lisa, and play better, better still. I have work
for you to do by-and-by.' Sometimes he said,
'Brava!' and sometimes he said 'Excellentissima!'
but one night last week he came to
me and said, 'It is enough. Will you swear
to do my bidding, whatever it may be?' Here
the black eyes fell. And I said, 'Yes.' And
he said, 'Now you are my betrothed.' And
I said, 'Yes.' And he said, 'Pack up your
music, little Lisa, and go off to England to my
English father and mother, who have an organ
in their house which must be played upon. If
they refuse to let you play, tell them I sent you,
and they will give you leave. You must play all
day, and you must get up in the night and play.
You must never tire. You are my betrothed, and
you have sworn to do my work.' I said, 'Shall
I see you there, signor?' And he said, 'Yes,
you shall see me there.' I said, I shall keep
my vow, signor.' And so, sir and madame, I
am come."

The soft foreign voice left off talking, the
fingers left off thrumming on the chair, and the
little stranger gazed in dismay at her auditors,
both pale with agitation.

"You are deceived. You make a mistake,"
said they, in one breath.

"Our son——" began Mistress Hurly, but
her mouth twitched, her voice broke, and she
looked piteously towards her husband.

"Our son," said the squire, making an effort
to conquer the quavering in his voice, "our son
is long dead."

"Nay, nay," said the little foreigner. "If
you have thought him dead, have good cheer, dear
sir and madame. He is alive; he is well, and
strong and handsome. But one, two, three,
four, five" (on the fingers) "days ago he stood
by my side."

"It is some strange mistake, some wonderful
coincidence!" said the mistress and master of
Hurly Burly.

"Let us take her to the gallery," murmured
the mother of this son who was thus dead and
alive. "There is yet light to see the pictures.
She will not know his portrait."

The bewildered wife and husband led their
strange visitor away to a long gloomy room at
the west side of the house, where the faint
gleams from the darkening sky still lingered on
the portraits of the Hurly family.

"Doubtless he is like this," said the squire,
pointing to a fair-haired young man with a mild
face, a brother of his own who had been lost at
sea.

But Lisa shook her head and went softly on
tiptoe from one picture to another, peering into
the canvas, and still turning away troubled.
But at last a shriek of delight startled the
shadowy chamber.

"Ah, here he is! see, here he is, the noble
signor, the beautiful signor, not half so handsome
as he looked five days ago when talking to
poor little Lisa! Dear sir and madame, you are
now content. Now take me to the organ, that I
may commence to do his bidding at once."

The mistress of Hurly Burly clung fast by her
husband's arm.

"How old are you, girl?" she said, faintly.

"Eighteen," said the visitor, impatiently,
moving towards the door.

"And my son has been dead for twenty
years!" said this mother, and swooned on her
husband's breast.

"Order the carriage at once," said Mistress
Hurly, recovering from her swoon; "I will
take her to Margaret Calderwood. Margaret
will tell her the story. Margaret will bring her
to reason. No, not to-morrow, I cannot bear
to-morrow, it is so far away. We must go to-
night."

The little signora thought the old lady mad,
but she put on her cloak again obediently and
took her seat beside Mistress Hurly in the
Hurly family coach. The moon that looked in
at them through the pane as they lumbered
along was not whiter than the aged face of the
squire's wife, whose dim faded eyes were fixed
upon it in doubt and awe too great for tears
or words. Lisa, too, from her corner gloated
upon the moon, her black eyes shining with
passionate dreams.

A carriage rolled away from the Calderwood
door as the Hurly coach drew up at the steps.
Margaret Calderwood had just returned from a
dinner-party, and at the open door a splendid
figure was standing, a tall woman dressed in
brown velvet, the diamonds on her bosom
glistening in the moonlight that revealed her,
pouring, as it did, over the house from eaves to
basement. Mistress Hurly fell into her
outstretched arms with a groan, and the strong
woman carried her aged friend, like a baby, into
the house. Little Lisa was overlooked, and
sat down contentedly on the threshold to gloat
awhile longer on the moon, and to thrum
imaginary sonatas on the door-step.

There were tears and sobs in the dusk moonlit
room into which Margaret Calderwood
carried her friend. There was a long consultation,
and then Margaret, having hushed away
the grieving woman into some quiet corner,
came forth to look for the little dark-faced
stranger, who had arrived, so unwelcome, from
beyond the seas, with such wild communication
from the dead.

Up the grand staircase of handsome Calderwood
the little woman followed the tall one
into a large chamber where a lamp burned,
showing Lisa, if she cared to see it, that this
mansion of Calderwood was fitted with much
greater luxury and richness than was that of
Hurly Burly. The appointments of this room
announced it the sanctum of a woman who
depended for the interest of her life upon
resources of intellect and taste. Lisa noticed
nothing but a morsel of biscuit that was lying
on a plate.

"May I have it?" said she, eagerly. "It is
so long since I have eaten. I am hungry."