Through the summer nights they sighed.

But it was not a lullaby--it was not a serenade.

It was the croning of a Norland enchantress, and young Hope sat at her open window, looking out into the moonlight, and listening.
Abel Newt opened the gate and passed in.

He walked along the avenue, from which the lawn was still hidden by the skirting hedge, went up the steps, and rang the bell.
"Is Mr.Burt at home ?" he asked, quietly.
"This way, Sir," said the nimble Hiram, going before, but half turning and studying the visitor as he spoke, and quite unable to comprehend him at a glance.

"I will speak to him." Abel Newt was shown into a large drawing-room.