harp?"

"I do."

"Will you not sing for me?"

"I will, with pleasure, if you will make room in the library," she
replied with unaffected simplicity. The library was occupied by a
number of matronly ladies and elderly gentlemen--all of the guests
who were not participating in the dance. Lizzie bowed her head
slightly, and passed to the harp, now silent in one corner. Without
hesitation she seated herself before it, and the slender fingers
grasped the strings of the instrument with a masterly touch, running
through a soft, sweet prelude of tender chords. Her voice at last
trilled forth in the charming strains of the old Scotch ballad,
"Down the burn, Davy, love."

Concluding this old favorite air, she sang again, with sweetness,
the witching song, "I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows."

Then rising from the harp, she said, with sweet accent and sweeter
smile, "Now that I have bewitched you with my music, Mr. Marshall, I
am ready for the promenade on the corridor."

These words so lightly spoken by the girl, were but the utterance of
a truth of which she had no suspicion. George Marshall was indeed
bewitched, and bowing a silent assent, he offered his arm to the
enchantress, and soon Lizzie found herself among the dancers, who
were seeking temporary relaxation from the exercise, scattered in
groups here, there, and everywhere about the spacious building.