Katherine was not the kind of girl to nurse her grief, to dwell upon it with morbid insistence:  but she remembered, warmly, lovingly.  At times gusts of passionate regret swept over her and shook her self-control, and she dared not attempt her mother’s favorite song; the mere request for it called up a cloud of memories.  She saw the dear face, the sweet faded blue eyes that used to dwell upon her so tenderly, with such unutterable content.  No other eyes would ever look upon her thus; never again could she hope for such perfect sympathy as she had once known.

“Does that make up for ‘Robin Adair,’ Colonel Ormonde?” she said when the song was ended.

“A very good song and very well sung, but it’s not equal to ’Robin Adair.’”

“Lady Alice, will you try that duet of Helmer’s?” asked Katherine; and Lady Alice graciously assented.

“I shall miss your accompaniment dreadfully when I leave,” she said, when the duet was accomplished.  “I feel so sure when you play, and you help me.  I hope you will come and see me.  Lady Mary, my aunt, would be very pleased; don’t you think she would?” to Errington, appealingly.

“Certainly.  I hope, Miss Liddell, you will not desert Alice.  If you will permit it, Lady Mary Vincent will have the pleasure of calling on you.”

“That will be very kind,” returned Katherine, softly.  If this man were safely married and settled, she thought, she would like to be friends with his wife, and serve him in any way she could.  If his eyes did not always confuse and distress her, how much she could like him!

As she rose from the piano, De Burgh, who had been speaking aside with Colonel Ormonde, left him to join her.  “I have settled it all with Ormonde,” he said.  “I am to have the pony-carriage and the dun ponies (not those Mrs. Ormonde generally drives) to-morrow; so, if it does not rain, I’ll give you your first lesson; that is, if you will allow me.”

“You are very prompt,” returned Katherine, “and very good to take so much trouble.  If it is fine, then, to-morrow.  Pray arm yourself with patience.  Are not the dun ponies rather frisky?”

“Spirited, but free from vice.  Ormonde had them from my stables.  It’s no use learning to drive with dull, inanimate brutes.  You’ll consider yourself engaged?”

“I do, if Mrs. Ormonde does not want me to go anywhere with her.”

“She will not,” said De Burgh, confidently.

“Good-night,” returned Katherine.  “Tell Mrs. Ormonde I have stolen away, for I have a slight headache.”

“What? going already?” cried De Burgh.  “No more songs?  The evening, then, is over.”

The following day was soft and bright.  March had evidently made up his martial mind to go out in a lamb-like fashion, and De Burgh was unusually amiable and communicative.  “When shall you be ready to start?” he asked, following Katherine from the breakfast-table.