“A memory of Offenbach,” he said, rising and coming over to the piano.  “We certainly can’t approach the French in writing these airy trifles.”

“They’re unsatisfactory, I think,” said Madge, running her fingers over the keys; “they mean nothing.”

“Of course not,” he replied, “but don’t you remember that De Quincy says there is no moral either big or little in the Iliad.”

“Well, I think there’s more music in Barbara Allan than all those frothy things,” said Madge, with fine scorn.  “Come and sing it.”

“A five-act funeral, it is,” groaned Brian, as he rose to obey; “let’s have Garry Owen instead.”

Nothing else however would suit the capricious young person at the piano, so Brian, who had a pleasant voice, sang the quaint old ditty of cruel Barbara Allan, who treated her dying love with such disdain.

“Sir John Graham was an ass,” said Brian, when he had finished; “or, instead of dying in such a silly manner, he’d have married her right off, without asking her permission.”

“I don’t think she was worth marrying,” replied Madge, opening a book of Mendelssohn’s duets; “or she wouldn’t have made such a fuss over her health not being drunk.”

“Depend upon it, she was a plain woman,” remarked Brian, gravely, “and was angry because she wasn’t toasted among the rest of the country belles.  I think the young man had a narrow escape—­she’d always have reminded him about that unfortunate oversight.”

“You seem to have analysed her nature pretty well,” said Madge, a little dryly; “however, we’ll leave the failings of Barbara Allan alone, and sing this.”

This was Mendelssohn’s charming duet, “Would that my Love,” which was a great favourite of Brian’s.  They were in the middle of it when suddenly Madge stopped, as she heard a loud cry, evidently proceeding from her father’s study.  Recollecting Dr. Chinston’s warning, she ran out of the room, and upstairs, leaving Brian rather puzzled by her unceremonious departure, for though he had heard the cry, yet he did not attach much importance to it.

Madge knocked at the study door, and then she tried to open it, but it was locked.

“Who’s there?” asked her father, sharply, from inside.

“Only me, papa,” she answered.  “I thought you were—­”

“No!  No—­I’m all right,” replied her father, quickly.  “Go down stairs, I’ll join you shortly.”

Madge went back to the drawing-room only half satisfied with the explanation.  She found Brian waiting at the door, with rather an anxious face.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, as she paused a moment at the foot of the stairs.

“Papa says nothing,” she replied, “but I am sure he must have been startled, or he would not have cried out like that.”