and, though a gentleman’s song, it was rendered with exquisite taste and feeling.  The singer looked up appealingly at Mr. Lamb twice, solely to invoke his aid in turning the music leaf.  But, to Coristine’s jealous soul, it was a glance of tenderness and mutual understanding.  Four long days he had known her, and she had never sung for him; and now, just as soon as the Crown Land idiot comes along, she must favour him with her very best.  He would not be rude, and talk while the singing was going on, but he would let Lamb do all the thanking; he wasn’t going shares with that affected dude.  The music ceased, and he turned to see whom he could talk to.  Mrs. Carmichael and Miss Halbert were busy with their clerical adorers.  The colonel and Mrs. Du Plessis had evidently bid their dear boy good night, for they were engaged in earnest conversation, in which he called her Teresa, and she called him Paul as often as colonel.  Miss Du Plessis was turning over the leaves of an album.  He went up to her, and asked if she would not favour the company with some music.  “Instrumental or vocal, Mr. Coristine?” she asked.  “Oh, vocal, if you please, Miss Du Plessis; do you sing, ’Shall I wasting in despair,’ or anything of that kind?” Miss Du Plessis did not, but would like to hear Mr. Coristine sing it.  He objected that he had no music, and was a poor accompanyist.  Before the unhappy man knew where he was, Miss Du Plessis was by Miss Carmichael’s side, begging her dear friend Marjorie to accompany Mr. Coristine.  She agreed, for she knew the song, and the music was in the stand.  Like a condemned criminal, Coristine was conducted to the piano; but the first few bars put vigour into him, and he sang the piece through with credit.  He was compelled, of course, to return thanks for the excellent accompaniment, but this he did in a stiff formal way, as if the musician was an entire stranger.  Then they had prayers, for the gentlemen had come in out of the office, and, afterwards, the clergymen went home.  As the inmates of Bridesdale separated for the night, Miss Carmichael handed the lawyer his ring, saying that since his hands were fit to dispense with gloves, they must also be strong enough to bear its weight.  He accepted the ring with a sigh, and silently retired to his chamber.  Before turning in for the night, he looked in upon Wilkinson, whom he found awake.  After enquiries as to his arm and general health, he said:  “Wilks, my boy, congratulate me on being an ass; I’ve lost the finest woman in all the world by my own stupidity.”  His friend smiled at him, and answered:  “Do not be down-hearted, Corry; I will speak to Ceci—­Miss Du Plessis I mean, and she will arrange matters for you.”  The lawyer fervently exclaimed:  “God bless you, Wilks!” and withdrew, not a little comforted.  We cannot intrude into the apartment of the young ladies, but there was large comfort in their conversation for a person whose Christian name was Eugene.  If he only had known it!