"music hath charms."

"may i come in?" says molly, next day, knocking softly at lady stafford's door.

"by all means," returns the plaintive voice from within; and molly, opening the door, finds cecil has risen, and is coming forward eagerly to meet her.

"i knew your voice," says the blonde, gayly. "come in and sit down, do. i am ennuyée to the last degree, and will accept it as a positive charity if you will devote half an hour to my society."

"but you are sure i am not in the way?" asks molly, hesitating; "you are not—busy?"

"busy! oh, what a stranger i am to you, my dear," exclaims cecil, elevating her brows: "it is three long years since last i was busy. i am sure i wish i were: perhaps it might help me to get through the time. i have spent the last hour wondering what on earth brought me to this benighted spot, and i really don't know yet."

"grandpapa's invitation, i suppose," says molly, laughing.

"well, yes, perhaps so; and something else,—something that i verily believe brings us all!—the fact that he has untold money, and can leave it where he pleases. there lies the secret of our yearly visitations. we outsiders don't of course hope to be the heir,—philip is that, or marcia, or perhaps both; but still there is a good deal of ready money going, and we all hope to be 'kindly remembered.' each time we sacrifice ourselves by coming down here, we console ourselves by the reflection that it is at least another hundred tacked on to our legacy."

"what if you are disappointed?"

"i often think of that," says her ladyship, going off into a perfect peal of laughter. "oh, the fun it would be! think of our expressions. i assure you i spend whole hours picturing maud darley's face under the circumstances; you know she takes those long drives with him every day in the fond hope of cutting us all out and getting the lion's share."

"poor woman! it is sad if she has all her trouble for nothing. i do not think i should like driving with grandpapa."

"i share your sentiments: neither should i. still, there is a charm in money. every night before going to bed i tot up on my fingers the amount of the bequest i feel i ought to receive. it has reached two thousand pounds by this. next visit will commence a fresh thousand."

"you are sanguine," says molly. "i wonder if i shall go on hoping like you, year after year."

"i request you will not even insinuate such a thing," cries lady stafford in pretended horror. "'year after year!' why, how long do you mean him to live? if he doesn't die soon, i shall certainly throw up my chance and cut his acquaintance." then, with sudden self-reproach, "poor old fellow," she says, "it is a shame to speak of him like this even in jest. he may live forever, as far as i am concerned. now tell me something about yourself, and do take a more comfortable chair: you don't look half cozy."

"don't make me too comfortable, or perhaps i shall bore you to death with the frequency of my visits. you will have me again to-morrow if you don't take care."

"well, i hope so. remember you have carte blanche to come here whenever you choose. i was fast falling into the blues when i heard you knock, so you may fancy how welcome you were, almost as welcome as my cousin."

"marcia?" asks molly, feeling slightly disappointed at the "almost."

"oh, dear, no,—not marcia; she and i don't get on a bit too well together, and she was excessively disagreeable all this morning: she is her grandfather's own child. i am sure she need not visit philip's defection on me; but she has a horrible temper, and that's the truth. no, i meant tedcastle; he is my cousin also. i do so like tedcastle: don't you?"

"very much indeed," coloring faintly. "but," hastily, "i have not yet told you what brought me here to-day."

"do you mean to tell me you had an object in coming?" cries her ladyship, throwing up her little white jeweled hands in affected reproach. "that something keener than a desire for my society has brought you to my boudoir? you reduce me to despair! i did for one short quarter of an hour believe you 'loved me for myself alone.'"

"no," laughing, and blushing, too, all through her pale clear skin, "i confess to the object. i—the fact is—i have felt a little deceitful ever since last night. because—in spite of marcia's superior information on the subject, i have had some slight education, and i do know a little french!"

"ah!" cries lady stafford, rising and blushing herself, a vivid crimson: "you heard, you understood all. well," with a sudden revival, and a happy remembrance of her own words, "i didn't say anything bad, did i?"

"no, no: i would not have come here if you had. you said all there was of the kindest. you were so kind. i could not bear to deceive you or let you retain a false opinion of me. marcia, indeed, outdid herself, though i am guiltless of offense toward her. she is evidently not aware of the fact that one part of my life was spent in london with my aunt, my father's sister, and that while with her i had the best masters to be found. i am sorry for marcia, but i could not bring myself to speak just then."

cecil burst into a merry, irresistible laugh.

"it is delicious!" cries she, wickedly. "a very comedy of errors. if we could but manage some effective way of showing marcia her mistake. can you," with sudden inspiration, "sing?"

"i can," says molly, calmly.

"you can. that sounds promising. i wonder you don't say 'a little,' as all young ladies do, more especially when they sing a good deal more than any one wants them to! come here, and let me see what you mean by that uncompromising 'can.'"

opening a small cottage piano at the other end of her pretty sitting-room, she motions molly to the instrument.

"play for me," molly says, bent on doing her very best. "i can sing better standing."

"what, then?"

"this," taking up a song of sullivan's, after a rapid survey of the pile of music lying on one side.

she sings, her lovely voice thrilling and sobbing through the room, sings with a passionate desire to prove her powers, and well succeeds. for a minute after she has finished, cecil does not speak, and then goes into raptures, as "is her nature to."

"oh that i had your voice!" cries she, with genuine tears in her eyes. "i would have the world at my feet. what a gift! a voice for a goddess! molly—may i call you so?—i absolutely pity marcia when i think of her consternation."

"she deserves it," says molly, who feels her cousin's conduct deeply. "i will sing to-night, if you will get marcia to ask me."

so the two conspirators arrange their little plan, cecil stafford being quite mischievous enough to enjoy the thought of miss amherst's approaching discomfiture, while molly feels all a woman's desire to restore her hurt vanity.

dinner is half over; and so far it has been highly successful. mr. amherst's temper has taken this satisfactory turn,—he absolutely refuses to speak to any of his guests.

under these circumstances every one feels it will be the better part of valor not to address him,—all, that is, except mrs. darley, who, believing herself irresistible, goes in for the doubtful task of soothing the bear and coaxing him from his den.

"i am afraid you have a headache, dear mr. amherst," she says, beaming sweetly upon him.

"are you, madam? even if i were a victim to that foolish disorder, i hardly see why the fact should arouse a feeling of terror in your breast. only weak-minded girls have headaches."

a faint pause. conversation is languishing, dying, among the other guests; they smell the fight afar, and pause in hungry expectation of what is surely coming.

"i pity any one so afflicted," says mrs. darley, going valiantly to her death: "i am a perfect martyr to them myself." here she gives way to a little sympathetic sigh, being still evidently bent on believing him weighed down with pain heroically borne.

"are you?" says mr. amherst, with elaborate politeness. "you astonish me. i should never have thought it. rheumatism, now, i might. but how old are you, madam?"

"well, really," says mrs. darley, with a pretty childish laugh which she rather cultivates, being under the impression that it is fascinating to the last degree, "asking me so suddenly puts the precise day i was born out of my head. i hardly remember—exactly—when——"

conversation has died. every one's attention is fixed; by experience they know the end is nigh.

"just so; i don't suppose you could, it happened such a long time ago!" says this terrible old man, with an audible chuckle, that falls upon a silent and (must it be said?) appreciative audience.

mrs. darley says no more; what is there left to say? and conversation is once more taken up, and flows on as smoothly as it can, when everybody else is talking for a purpose.

"is she old?" molly asks philip, presently, in a low tone, when the buzz is at its highest; "very old, i mean? she looks so babyish."

"how old would you say?" speaking in the same guarded tone as her own, which has the effect of making luttrell and marcia believe them deep in a growing flirtation.

"about twenty-two or three."

"she does it uncommonly well then," says philip, regarding mrs. darley with much admiration,—"uncommonly well; her maid must be a treasure."

"but why? is she older than that?"

"i don't know, i am sure," says philip, unkindly, with an amused smile. "she used to be my age, but i haven't the faintest idea in the world what she is—now!"

after one or two more playful sallies on the part of their host,—for having once found his tongue he takes very good care to use it, and appears fatally bent on making his hearers well aware of its restoration,—the ladies adjourn to the drawing-room, where mrs. darley instantly retires behind her handkerchief and gives way to a gentle sob.

"that detestable old man!" she says, viciously; "how i hate him! what have i done, that he should treat me with such exceeding rudeness? one would think i was as old as—as—methuselah! not that his mentioning my age puts me out in the least,—why should it?—only his manner is so offensive!"

and as she finishes she rolls up the corners of her handkerchief into a little point, and carefully picks out, one by one, the two tears that adorn her eyes, lest by any chance they should escape, and, running down her cheeks, destroy the evening's painting.

"don't distress yourself about it, maud," says lady stafford, kindly, although strongly divided between pity for the angry maud and a growing desire to laugh; "nobody minds him: you know we all suffer in turn. something tells me it will be my turn next, and then you will indeed see a noble example of fortitude under affliction."

there is no time for more; the door opens and the men come in, more speedily to-night than is their wont, no doubt driven thereto by the amiability of mr. amherst.

maud suppresses the tell-tale handkerchief, and puts on such a sweet smile as utterly precludes the idea of chagrin. the men, with the usual amount of bungling, fall into their places, and cecil seizes the opportunity to say to marcia, in a low tone:

"you say miss massereene sings. ask her to give us something now. it is so slow doing nothing all the evening, and i feel mr. amherst is bent on mischief. besides, it is hard on you, expecting you to play all the night through."

"i will ask her if you wish it," marcia says, indifferently, "but remember, you need not look for a musical treat. i detest bad singing myself."

"oh, anything, anything," says cecil, languidly sinking back into her chair.

thus instigated, marcia does ask molly to sing.

"if you will care to hear me," molly answers, coldly rather than diffidently, and rising, goes to the piano.

"perhaps there may be something of mine here that you may know," marcia says, superciliously, pointing to the stand; but molly, declaring that she can manage without music, sits down and plays the opening chords of gounod's "berceuse."

a moment later, and her glorious voice, rarely soft, and sweet as a child's, yet powerful withal, rings through the room, swells, faints, every note a separate delight, falling like rounded pearls from her lips.

a silence—truest praise of all—follows. one by one the talkers cease their chatter; the last word remains a last word; they forget the thought of a moment before.

a dead calm reigns, while molly sings on, until the final note drops from her with lingering tenderness.

even then they seem in no hurry to thank her; almost half a minute elapses before any one congratulates her on the exquisite gift that has been given her.

"you have been days in the house, and never until now have let us hear you," philip says, leaning on the top of the piano; he is an enthusiast where music is concerned. "how selfish! how unkind! i could hardly have believed it of you."

"was i ever asked before?" molly says, raising her eyes to his, while her fingers still run lightly over the notes.

"i don't know. i suppose it never occurred to us, and, as you may have noticed, there is a dearth of graciousness among us. but for you to keep such a possession a secret was more than cruel. sing again."

"i must not monopolize the piano: other people can sing too."

"not like you." he pauses, and then says, slowly, "i used to think nature was impartial in the distribution of her gifts,—that, as a rule, we all received pretty much the same amount of good at her hands; to one beauty, to another talent, and so on; but i was wrong: she has her favorites, it appears. surely already you had had more than your share, without throwing in your perfect voice."

molly lowers her eyes, but makes no reply; experience has taught her that this is one of the occasions on which "silence is golden."

"you sing yourself, perhaps?" she says, presently, when she has tired of waiting for him to start a subject.

"occasionally. will you sing this with me?" taking up a celebrated duet and placing it before her. "do you know it?"

"yes, mr. luttrell and i used to sing it often at brooklyn: it was a great favorite of ours."

"oh, that! indeed!" laying it aside with suspicious haste. "shall we try something else?"

"and why something else?" composedly. "does that not suit your voice? if it does, i will sing it with you with pleasure."

"really?" regarding her closely, with what is decidedly more than admiration in his gaze. "are there no recollections hidden in that song?"

"how can i tell? i never saw that particular edition before. open it, and let us see," returns molly, with a merry laugh. "who knows what we may find between the pages?"

"if i might only believe you," he says, earnestly, still only half convinced. "do you mean to tell me luttrell spent an entire month with you, and left you heart-whole? i cannot believe it."

"then don't," still laughing.

at this instant, luttrell, who has with moody eyes been watching philip's eager face from the other end of the room, saunters up, and seeing the old well-remembered duet lying open before molly, suddenly thinks it may be there for him, and cheering up, says pleasantly:

"are you going to sing it with me?"

"not to-night," molly replies, kindly; "philip has just asked me to sing it with him. some other time."

"ah!" says luttrell, more wounded than he cares to confess; for is not that very song endeared to him by a thousand memories? and turning on his heel, he walks away.

with a little impulsive gesture molly rises from the piano-stool, and, without again looking at philip, moves across the room to the seat she had originally vacated. as she does so she passes close by marcia, who, ever since her cousin's voice first sounded in her ears, has been sitting silent, now pale, now red.

she stays molly by a slight movement of the hand, and says, coldly:

"i thought you told me you could neither sing nor understand french?"

"i don't think i could have said quite that," molly replies, quietly; "i told you i sang a little; it is not customary to laud one's own performances."

"you are a clever actress," says marcia, so low as to be unheard by all but molly: "with such a voice as yours, and such masterly command of all emotion and expression, you should make the stage your home."

"perhaps i shall find your hint useful in the future," says molly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders: "when one is poor it is always well to know there is something one can put one's hand to when things come to the worst; but at present i feel sufficiently at home where i am. i am glad," calmly, "my singing pleased you,—if, indeed, it did."

"you sing magnificently," marcia says, aloud, giving her meed of praise justly, but unwillingly.

"and such a charming song as that is!" breaks in mrs. darley: "i remember hearing it for the first time, just after my marriage; indeed, while we were yet enjoying our wedding tour. do you remember it, dearest?" as she murmurs the tender words, she turns upon her lord two azure eyes so limpid and full of trust and love that any man ignorant of the truth would have sworn by all his gods her desire was with her husband, whereas every inch of heart she possesses has long since been handed over to a man in the horse guards blue.

"humph!" says henry darley, eloquently; and without further rejoinder goes on with the game of chess he is playing with mr. amherst.

"let us have something else, eleanor," her grandfather says, looking up for an instant from his beloved queens and kings and castles; "another song."

this is such a wonderful request coming from mr. amherst, who is known to abhor marcia's attempts, that every one looks surprised.

"willingly, grandpapa," says molly, and, going once more to the piano, gladly puts the obnoxious duet away, feeling sure its appearance has caused tedcastle's annoyance. "though if he is going to be jealous so early in the game as this," thinks she, "i don't fancy i shall have an altogether festive time of it."

"what shall it be?" she asks, aloud.

"nothing italian, at all events," says mr. amherst (all marcia's endeavors are in that language); "i like something i can understand, and i hate your runs and trills."

"i will sing you my own song," says molly, gayly, and gives them "molly bawn" deliciously.

"how pretty that is!" says lady stafford; "and so wild,—quite irish! but your name, after all, is eleanor, is it not?"

"there is, i believe, a tradition in the family to that effect," says molly, smiling, "but it is used up, and no one now pays to it the least attention. i myself much prefer molly. i am always called molly bawn at home."

her voice lingers on the word "home." in an instant, amidst all the luxuries and charms of this beautiful drawing-room at herst, her mind goes back to the old, homely, beloved sanctum at brooklyn, where she sees john, and letty, and all the happy, merry, good-hearted children, harmoniously mixed up together.

"it is a pity," says mr. amherst, purposely, seeing an opening for one of his cheerful remarks, "that everything about ireland should be so wretchedly low."

"it is swampy," replies miss molly, promptly.

at this dangerous moment the door is thrown wide open, and a servant announces "mr. potts."

the effect is electric. everybody looks up, and pleased, and glad; while the owner of this euphonious name comes forward, and, having shaken hands with marcia, turns to old amherst.

"how d'ye do, sir?" he says, heartily. "i hope you are better."

"do you?" says mr. amherst, unamiably, feeling still a keen regret that the neat retort intended for molly must wait another occasion. "i would believe you if i could, but it isn't in human nature. yes, i am better, thank you; much better. i dare say with care i shall last this winter, and probably the next, and perhaps outlive a good many of you." he chuckles odiously as he winds up this pleasing speech.

mr. potts, rather taken aback, mutters something inaudible, and turns to lady stafford, who receives him warmly.

he is a young man of about twenty-four (though he might, in appearance, be any age from that to forty-four), and is short rather than tall. his eyes are gray, small, and bright, and full of fun, bespeaking imperturbable good humor.

his hair is red. it is hair that admits of no compromise; it is neither auburn, golden, nor light brown—it is a distinct and fiery red. his nose is "poor, but honest," and he has a thorough and most apparent appreciation of himself.

as i said before, lady stafford greets him warmly; he is one of her special pets.

"how are you getting on?" he asks, mysteriously, when the first questions and answers have been gone through. "old boy evidently worse than ever. the wine theory would not suit his case; age does anything but improve him. he has gone to the bad altogether. i suppose you've been putting in an awful bad time of it?"

"we have, indeed," says lady stafford; "he has been unbearable all through dinner, though he was pretty well yesterday. i think myself it must be gout; every twinge brings forth a caustic speech."

by this time every one had shaken hands with the newcomer, and welcomed him heartily. he seems specially pleased to see tedcastle.

"luttrell! you here? never had a hint of it. so glad to see you, old man! why, you're looking as fit as even your best friend could wish you."

"meaning yourself," says luttrell. "now, let's have a look at you. why, planty, what an exquisite get up! new coat and—etc. latest tie, and diamonds ad lib. quite coquettish, upon my word. who gave you the diamonds, potts? your mother?"

"no; i got tired of hinting there," says potts, ingenuously, "so gave it up, and bought 'em myself. they are fetching, i take it. luttrell, who is the girl at the piano? never saw anything so lovely in all my life."

"miss massereene."

"indeed! been received, and all that? well, there's been nothing this season to touch on her. introduce me, ted, do!"

he is introduced. and molly, smiling up at him one of her own brightest, kindliest smiles, makes him then and there her slave forever. on the spot, without a second's delay, he falls head over ears in love with her.

by degrees he gets back to lady stafford, and sinks upon the sofa beside her. i say "sinks" unadvisedly; he drops upon the sofa, and very nearly makes havoc of the springs in doing so.

"i want to tell you who i saw in town the day before i left—a week ago," he says, cautiously.

"a week ago! and have you been ever since getting here?"

"no; i did it by degrees. first, i went down to the maplesons', and spent two days there—very slow, indeed; then i got on to the blouts', and found it much slower there; finally, i drove to talbot lowry's night before last, and stayed there until this evening. you know he lives only three miles from here."

"he is at home now, then?"

"yes. he always is at home, i notice, when—you are here!"

"no!" says cecil, with a little faint laugh. "you don't say so! what a remarkable coincidence!"

"an annual coincidence. but you don't ask me who it was i saw in london. guess."

"the christy minstrels, without doubt. they never perform out of london, so i suppose are the only people in it now."

"wrong. there was one other person—sir penthony stafford!"

"really!" says cecil, coloring warmly, and sitting in a more upright position. "he has returned, then? i thought he was in egypt."

"so he was, but he has come back, looking uncommon well, too—as brown as a berry. to my thinking, as good a fellow to look at as there is in england, and a capital fellow all round into the bargain!"

"dear me!" says cecil. "what a loss egypt has sustained! and what a partisan you have become! may i ask," suppressing a pretended yawn behind her perfumed fan, "where your rara avis is at present hiding?"

"i asked him," says mr. potts, "but he rather evaded the question."

"and is that your mr. potts?" asks molly, finding herself close to tedcastle, speaking with heavy and suspicious emphasis.

"yes," tedcastle admits, coloring slightly as he remembers the glowing terms in which he has described his friend. "don't you—eh, don't you like him?"

"oh! like him? i cannot answer that yet; but," laughing, "i certainly don't admire him."

and indeed mr. potts's beauty is not of the sort to call forth raptures at first sight.

"i have seen many different shades of red in people's hair," says molly, "but i have never seen it rosy until now. is it dyed? it is the most curious thing i ever looked at."

as indeed it is. when introduced to poor potts, when covering him with a first dispassionate glance, one thinks not of his pale gray orbs, his large good-humored mouth, his freckles, or his enormous nose, but only of his hair. molly is struck by it at once.

"he is a right good fellow," says luttrell, rather indignantly, being scarcely in the mood to laugh at molly's sarcasms.

"he may be," is her calm reply, "but if i were he, rather than go through life with that complexion and that unhappy head, i would commit suicide."

then there is a little more music. marcia plays brilliantly enough, but it is almost impossible to forget during her playing that she has had an excellent master. it is not genuine, or from the heart. it is clever, but it is acquired, and falls very flatly after molly's perfect singing, and no one in the room feels this more acutely than marcia herself.

then luttrell, who has a charming voice, sings for them something pathetic and reproachful, you may be sure, as it is meant for molly's ears; and then the evening is at an end, and they all go to their own rooms.

what a haven of rest and security is one's own room! how instinctively in grief or joy one turns to it, to hide from prying eyes one's inmost thoughts, one's hopes, and despairs!

to-night there are two sad hearts at herst; marcia's, perhaps, the saddest, for it is full of that most maddening, most intolerable of all pains, jealousy.

for hours she sits by her casement, pondering on the cruelty of her fate, while the unsympathetic moon pours its white rays upon her.

"already his love is dead," she murmurs, leaning naked arms upon the window-sill, and turning her lustrous southern eyes up to the skies above her. "already. in two short months. and how have i fallen short? how have i lost him? by over-loving, perhaps. while she, who does not value it, has gained my all."

a little groan escapes her, and she lets her dark head sink upon her outstretched arms. for there is something in philip's eyes as they rest on molly, something undefined, hardly formed, but surely there, that betrays to marcia the secret feeling, of which he himself is scarcely yet aware.

one hardly knows how it is, but molly, with a glance, a gesture, three little words pointed by a smile from the liquid eyes, can draw him to her side. and when a man of his cold, reserved nature truly loves, be sure it is a passion that will last him his life.

tedcastle, too, is thoroughly unhappy to-night. his honest, unprying mind, made sharp by "love's conflict," has seen through philip's infatuation, and over his last cigar before turning in (a cigar that to-night has somehow lost half its soothing properties) makes out with a sinking of the heart what it all means.

he thinks, too, yet upbraids himself for so thinking, that miss massereene must see that philip shadwell, heir to herst and twenty thousand pounds a year, is a better catch than teddy luttrell, with only his great love for her, and a paltry six hundred pounds a year.

is it not selfish of him to seek to keep her from what is so evidently to her advantage? perhaps he ought to throw up his engagement, and, passing out of her life, leave her to reap the "good the gods provide."

in vain he tries to argue himself into this heroic frame of mind. the more he tries, the more obnoxious grows the idea. he cannot, he will not give her up.

"faint heart," says teddy, flinging the remnant of his cigar with fierce determination into the grate, "never won fair lady; she is mine, so far, the fairest darling that ever breathed, and be it selfish or otherwise, keep her i will if i can."

but he sighs as he utters the word "can," and finds his couch, when at length he does seek it, by no means a bed of roses.

while molly, the pretty cause of all this heart-burning, lies in slumber, soft and sweet, and happy as can be, with her "red, red" lips apart and smiling, her breathing pure and regular as a little child's, and all her "nut-brown" hair like a silken garment round her.

cecil stafford, walking leisurely up and down her apartment, is feeling half frightened, half amused, at the news conveyed to her by mr. potts, of her husband's arrival in england. now, at last, after these three years, she may meet him at any moment face to face.

surely never was a story so odd, so strange as hers! a bride unknown, a wife whose face has never yet been seen!

"well," thinks cecil, as she seats herself while her maid binds up her long fair hair, "no use troubling about it beforehand. what must be must be. and at all events the dreaded interview cannot be too soon, as until my return to town i believe i am pretty safe from him here."

but in saying this she reckons without her host in every sense of the word.