“I desire no thanks for the faithful discharge of my duty as a guardian:  my conscience acquits me fully, and that is the reward I value most.  If you really indulge any grateful sentiments on the eve of your departure, oblige me by singing something.  I bought that organ, hoping that now and then when my business permitted me to spend a quiet evening at home, I might enjoy your music; but you sedulously avoid touching it when I am present.  This is the last opportunity you will have, for I must meet Mr. Chesley at noon to-morrow in Baltimore, and thence I go on to Cincinnati, where I shall be detained, until the steamer has sailed.  After to-night I shall not see my ward again.”

They were standing near the azalea, and Regina suddenly put her hand on the back of a chair.  To see him no more after this evening—­to know that the broad ocean rolled between—­that she might never again look upon the face that was so inexpressibly dear;—­all this swept over her like a bitter murderous wave, drowning the sweetness of her life, and she clung to the chair.

She was not prepared for this sudden separation, but though his eyes were riveted upon her she bore it bravely.  A faint numb sensation stole over her, and a dark shadow seemed to float through the room, yet her low voice was steady, when she said: 

“I am sorry I disappointed any pleasant anticipations you indulged with reference to the organ, which has certainly been a source of much comfort to me.  I have felt very timid about singing before you, sir; but if it will afford you the least pleasure, I am willing to do the best of which I am capable.”

“You sang quite successfully before a large audience at Mrs. Brompton’s, and displayed sufficient self-possession.”

“But those were strangers, and the opinion of those with whom we live is more important, their criticism is more embarrassing.”

“I believe I was present, and heard you on that occasion.”

She moved away to the organ, and sat down, glad of an excuse, for her limbs trembled.

“Regina, what was that song you sang for little Llora Carew the night before she left us?  Indeed there were two, one with the other without an accompaniment?”

“You were not here at that time.”

“No matter; what were they?  The child fancies them exceedingly, and I promised to get the words for her.”

“Kuecken’s ‘Schlummerlied,’ and a little ‘Cradle Song’ by Wallace.”

“Be so good as to let me hear them.”

Would Mrs. Carew sing them for him when she was far away, utterly forgotten by her guardian?  The thought was unutterably bitter, and it goaded her, aided her in the ordeal.

With nerves strung to their extreme tension, she sang as he requested, and all the while her rich mellow voice rolled through the room, he walked very slowly from one end of the library to the other.  She forced herself to sing every verse, and when she concluded he was standing behind her chair.  He put his hands on her shoulders, and prevented her rising, for just then he was unwilling she should see his countenance, which he feared would betray the suffering he was resolved to conceal.