Mistress Betty, obeying a look from her mother, rose at once and went to the harpsichord, never thinking of the ungraceful and disobliging protest of more modern days. She seated herself, and struck boldly into the “The Marquis of Huntley’s Rigadoon.” She had, indeed, a skilful little hand, and as the touch of her small fingers filled the room with quaint music the earl sat, tapping with his foot to mark the time, and smiling at the little maid’s grave air while she played. When her performance was over she rose, and, making a reverence to her mother and her guest, returned to her sampler.