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gazed at her so intently, that Clare thought at last it was time for her to interfere; so she graciously slipped off the sofa, with the air of dignity which she knew so well to put on, and introduced herself to the professor with all proper ceremony. He was charmed beyond measure to make the acquaintance of such a dear friend of Miss Lauder, so he declared; nevertheless, at a very early moment the two musicians were fathoms deep in the usual London musical “shop,” which is so doubly dear to the exile in the “under world.”

“You will come back with me to London, my dear friend,” he said at last, as the night was drawing on. “My cantata is coming out at last, praise to heaven! They are going to do it at Birmingham next spring, and I depend on you to sing ‘The Maid of Norway.’ It is your music, you know. You inspired it. ‘Kennst du die eignen Lieder nicht?’”

“Oh, I should love to sing it! But suppose I were to make a mess of it?”

“I think it is time for us all to go to bed,” Clare interposed at last, mildly but firmly. “We have a long journey before us to-morrow, and must be away early. Do you accompany us to Green Street, Professor?”

“With your permission, madam, I will spend