“Now, dear Miss Lind, please understand that, if there was any stranger here at all, we should not dream of asking you to sing.  Ermentrude and I take all that on our shoulders; we squawk for the whole of the family.  But Evelyn has told us so much about your singing—­”

“Oh, I will sing for you if you wish it,” said Natalie, without hesitation.

Some little time thereafter Brand was walking up and down the room below, slowly and thoughtfully:  he was not much of a wine-drinker.

“Evelyn,” he said, suddenly, “I shall soon be able to tell you whether I owe you a life-long gratitude.  I owe you much already.  Through you I have got some work to do in the world; I am busy, and content.  But there is a greater prize.”

“I think I can guess what you mean,” his companion said, calmly.

“You do?” said the other, with a quick look.  “And you do not think I am mad?—­to go and ask her to be my wife before she has given me a single word of hope?”

“She has spoken to others about you:  I know what she thinks of you,” said Lord Evelyn.  Then the fine, pale face was slightly flushed.  “To tell you the truth, Brand, I thought of this before you ever saw her.”

“Thought of what?” said the other, with a stare of surprise.

“That you would be the right sort of man to make a husband for her:  she might be left alone in the world at any moment, without a single relation, and scarcely a friend.”

“Women don’t marry for these reasons,” said the other, somewhat absently.  “And yet, if she were to think of it, it would not be as if I were withdrawing her from everything she takes an interest in.  We should be together.  I am eager to go forward, even by myself; but with her for a companion—­think of that!”

“I have thought of it,” said Lord Evelyn, with something of a sad smile.  “Often.  And there is no man in England more heartily wishes you success than I do.  Come, let us go up to the drawing-room.”

They went out into the hall.  Some one was playing a noisy piece up-stairs; it was safe to speak.  And then he said,

“Shall I tell you something, Brand?—­something that will keep you awake all this night, and not with the saddest of thinking?  If I am not mistaken, I fancy you have already ‘stole bonny Glenlyon away.’”

CHAPTER XVI.

A LETTER.

Black night lay over the city, and silence; the river flowed unseen through the darkness; but a thousand golden points of fire mapped out the lines of the Embankment and the long curves of the distant bridges.  The infrequent sounds that could be heard were strangely distinct, even when they were faint and remote.  There was a slight rustling of wind in the trees below the window.