"Ah, yes; a song of lamentation--a dirge for the dead."

"No, no; seven years ago you had a lovely voice. I recollect what a
pleasure it was to me as a child; and they used to say that my voice
was very like yours, only not so sweet or so powerful. Aunt, I must go
out; and that man must know nothing about it. He is by the window in
the small library now, watching--watching. Help me, for the love of
Heaven, help me."

The girl spoke with a fervency and passion that seemed to waken a
responsive chord in Margaret Henson's breast. A brighter gleam crept
into her eyes.

"You are a dear girl," she said, dreamily; "yes, a dear girl. And I loved
singing; it was a great grief to me that they would not let me go upon
the stage. But I haven't sung since--since _that_--"

She pointed to the huddled heap of china and glass and dried, dusty
flowers in one corner. Ethel shuddered slightly as she followed the
direction of the extended forefinger.

"But you must try," she whispered. "It is for the good of the family, for
the recovery of the secret. Reginald Henson is sly and cruel and clever.
But we have one on our side now who is far more clever. And, unless I can
get away to-night without that man knowing, the chance may be lost for
ever. Come!"

Margaret commenced to sing in a soft minor. At first the chords were thin
and dry, but gradually they increased in sweetness and power. The
hopeless, distant look died from the singer's eyes; there was a flush on