He recited the lines softly, but with eloquent emphasis. "You see, those of us who take the trouble to consider the working and progress of events, know well enough that this glorious Creation around us is not a caprice or a farce. It is designed for a Cause and moves steadily towards that Cause. There may be no doubt there are many men who elect to view life from a low, material, or even farcical standpoint-nevertheless, life in itself is serious and noble."

Cicely's dark face lightened as with an illumination while she listened to these words. Maryllia, who had taken up the roses she had laid in Cicely's lap, and was now arranging them afresh, looked up suddenly.

"Yet there are many searching truths in the philosophy of Omar Kayyám, Mr. Walden," she said-" Many sad facts that even our religion can scarcely get over, don't you think 80?"

He met her eyes with a gentle kindliness in his own.

"I think religion, if true and pure, turns all sad facts to sweetness, Miss Vancourt," he said-" At least, so I have found it."

The clear conviction of his tone was like the sound of a silver bell calling to prayer. A silence followed, broken only by the singing of a little bird aloft in the cedar-tree, whose ecstatic pipings aptly expressed the unspoilt joys of innocence and trust.

"One pretty verse of Omar I remember," then said Cicely, abruptly, fixing her penetrating eyes on Walden,-" And it really isn't a bit irreligious. It is this:

The Bird of Life is singing on the bough,
His two eternal notes of "I and Thou ".

O hearken well, for soon the song sings through,
And would we hear it, we must hear it Now!"

A white rose slipped from the cluster Maryllia held, and dropped on the grass. John stooped for it, and gave it back to her. Their hands just touched as she smiled her thanks. There was nothing in the simple exchange of courtesies to move any self-possessed man from his normal calm, yet a

sudden hot thrill and leap of the heart dazed Walden's brain for a moment and made him almost giddy. A sick fear-an indefinable horror of himself possessed him,-caught by this unnameable transport of sudden and singular emotion, he felt he could have rushed away, away!-anywhere out of reach and observation, and have never entered the fair and halcyon gardens of Abbot's Manor again. Why?-in Heaven's name, why? He could not tell,-but-he had no right to be there!-no right to be there!-he kept on repeating to himself; he ought to have remained at home, shut up in his study with his dog and his books,-alone, alone, always alone! The brief tempest raged over his soul with soundless wind and fire, then passed, leaving no trace on his quiet features and composed manner. But in that single instant an abyss had been opened in the depths of his own consciousness, -an abyss into which he looked with amazement and dread at the strange foolhardiness which had involuntarily led him to its brink, and he now drew back from it, nervously shuddering.

"And would we hear it, we must hear it Now!'" repeated Adderley, with opportune bathos at this juncture-" As I have said, and will always maintain, Omar's verse always fits in with the happy approach of creature comforts! Behold the illustration and example!-Primmins with the tea!"

"It is a pretty verse, though, isn't it?" queried Cicely, moving her chair aside to make more space for the butler and footman as they nimbly set out the afternoon tea-table in the deepest shade bestowed by the drooping cedar boughs -"Isn't it?"

And her searching eyes fastened themselves pertinaciously upon John's face.

"Very pretty!" he answered, steadily-" And-so far s it goes very true!"

XVII

AFTER tea, they re-entered the house at Maryllia's request, to hear Cicely play. Arrived in the drawing-room they found the only truly modern thing in it, a grand piano, of that noted French make which as far surpasses the German model as a genuine Stradivarius surpasses a child's fiddle put together yesterday, and, taking her seat at this instrument, Cicely had transformed both herself and it into unspeakable enchantment. The thing of wood and wire and ivory keys had become possessed, as it were, with the thunder of the battling clouds and the great rush of the sea,-and then it had suddenly whispered of the sweetness of love and life, till out of storm had grown the tender calm of a flowing melody, on which wordless dreams of happiness glittered like rainbow bubbles on foam, shining for a moment and then vanishing at a breath; it had caught the voices of the rain and wind,-and the pattering drops and sibilant hurricane had whizzed sharply through the scale of sound till the very notes seemed alive with the wrath of nature, and then it had rolled all the wild clamour away into a sustained magnificence of prayerful chords which seemed to plead for all things grand, all things true, all things beautiful,-and to list the soul of man in panting, labouring ecstasy up to the very threshold of Heaven! And she-the 'goblin' who evoked all this phantasmagoria of life set in harmony-she too changed as it seemed, in nature and aspect,-her small meagre face was as the face of a pictured angel, with the dark hair clustering round it in thick knots and curling waves as of blackest bronze,-while the eyes, full of soft passion and fire, glowed beneath the broad temples with the light of youth's imperial dream of fame. What human creature could accept the limited fact of being mere man, mere woman only, while Cicely played? Such music as hers recalled and revealed the earliest splendour of the days when Poesy was newly born,-when gods and goddesses were believed to walk the world in large and majestic freedom,-and when brave deeds of chivalry and self-sacrifice became exalted by the very plenitude of rich imagination, into supernatural facts of heaven

conquering, hell-charming prowess. Not then was man made to seem uncouth, or mean and savage in his attempts to dominate the planet, but strong, fearless, and endowed with dignity and power. Not then was every noble sentiment derided, every truth scourged, every trust betrayed, every tenderness mocked,-and every sweet emotion made the subject of a slander or a sneer. Not then was love mere lust, marriage mere convenience, and life mere covetousness of gain. There was something higher, greater, purer than these, -something of the inspiring breath of God, which, according to the old Biblical narrative, was breathed into humanity with the words-"Let us make man in Our image, after Our likeness." That 'image' of God was featured gloriously in the waves of music which surged through Cicely's brain and fingers, out on the responsive air, and when she ceased playing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe, which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation were afraid to break by a word or movement. And then, with a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had passed her small supple hands lightly again over the pianokeys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure silvery sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De Musset's Adieu, Suzon!'

Was it possible for any man with a drop of warm blood flowing through his veins, not to feel a quicker heart-beat, a swifter pulse, at the entrancing, half-melancholy, half-mocking sweetness she infused into these lines?

“Je pars, et sur ma lèvre ardente

Brûle encor ton dernier baiser.
Entre mes bras, chère imprudente

Ton beau front vient de reposer.
Sens-tu mon cœur, comme il palpite?

Le tien, comme il battait gaiment!

Jem'en vais pourtant, ma petite,
Bien loin, bien vite
Tourjours t'aimant!
Adieu, Suzon! "

With the passion, fire and exquisite abandon of her singing of this verse in tones of such youthful freshness and fervour as could scarcely be equalled and never surpassed, Adderley could no longer restrain himself, and crying Brava!-brava! Bravissima!' fell to clapping his hands in the wildest ecstasy. Walden, less demonstrative, was far more moved. Something quite new and strange to his long fixed habit and temperament had insidiously crept over him, and being well accustomed to self-analysis, he was conscious of the fact, and uneasy at finding himself in the grip of an emotion to which he could give no name. Therefore, he was glad when,-the music being ended, and when he had expressed his more or less incoherent praise and thanks to Cicely for the delight her wonderful gift had afforded him, he could plead some business in the village as an excuse to take his departure. Maryllia very sweetly bade him come again.

"As often as you like," she said-" And I want you to promise me one thing, Mr. Walden!-you must consent to meet some of my London friends here one evening to dinner." She had given him her hand in parting, and he was holding it in his own.

"I'm afraid I should be very much in the way, Miss Vancourt,”—he replied, with a grave smile-"I am not a social acquisition by any means! I live very much alone,-and a solitary life, I think, suits me best."

She looked at him thoughtfully, and withdrew her hand. "That means that you do not care to come," she said, simply-"I am so sorry you do not like me!"

The blood rushed up to his brows.

"Miss Vancourt!" he stammered-"Pray-pray do not think

But here she turned aside to receive Adderley's farewells and thanks for the charming afternoon he had spent in her company. After this, and when Julian had made his exit, accompanied by Cicely who wanted him to give her a written copy of certain verses he had composed, Maryllia again spoke: Well, at any rate, I shall send you an invitation to one of my parties, whether you come or not, Mr. Walden;" she said, playfully-" Otherwise, I shall feel I have not done my social duty to the minister of the parish! It will be for some even

66