Her head is forward a little, and her eyes directed keenly upward
to the top of the page of music confronting her. Then comes a
rapid look into Stephen's face, and a still more rapid look back
again to her business, her face having dropped its sadness, and
acquired a certain expression of mischievous archness the while;
which lingered there for some time, but was never developed into a
positive smile of flirtation.

Stephen suddenly shifted his position from her right hand to her
left, where there was just room enough for a small ottoman to
stand between the piano and the corner of the room. Into this
nook he squeezed himself, and gazed wistfully up into Elfride's
face. So long and so earnestly gazed he, that her cheek deepened
to a more and more crimson tint as each line was added to her
song. Concluding, and pausing motionless after the last word for
a minute or two, she ventured to look at him again. His features
wore an expression of unutterable heaviness.

'You don't hear many songs, do you, Mr. Smith, to take so much
notice of these of mine?'

'Perhaps it was the means and vehicle of the song that I was
noticing: I mean yourself,' he answered gently.

'Now, Mr. Smith!'

'It is perfectly true; I don't hear much singing. You mistake
what I am, I fancy. Because I come as a stranger to a secluded
spot, you think I must needs come from a life of bustle, and know