"Ah! dear madam," said Ferrers, advancing, as he found himself
discovered, "I trust I do not disturb you. My visit is unseasonable;
but my uncle--where is he?"

"He has been in town all the morning; he said he should dine out, and I
now expect him every minute."

"You have been endeavouring to charm away the sense of his absence.
Dare I ask you to continue to play? It is seldom that I hear a voice so
sweet and skill so consummate. You must have been instructed by the
best Italian masters."

"No," said Mrs. Templeton, with a very slight colour in her delicate
cheek, "I learned young, and of one who loved music and felt it; but who
was not a foreigner."

"Will you sing me that song again?--you give the words a beauty I never
discovered in them; yet they (as well as the music itself), are by my
poor friend whom Mr. Templeton does not like--Maltravers."

"Are they his also?" said Mrs. Templeton, with emotion; "it is strange I
did not know it. I heard the air in the streets, and it struck me much.
I inquired the name of the song and bought it--it is very strange!"

"What is strange?"

"That there is a kind of language in your friend's music and poetry
which comes home to me, like words I have heard years ago! Is he young,
this Mr. Maltravers?"