ely, his heart cried out for home. In his
fancy the wind seemed rippling over the Avon, and the elm-leaves rustled
like rain upon the roof above his bed. There were red and white
wild-roses in the hedge, and in the air a smell of clover and of
new-mown hay. The mowers would be working in the clover in the
moonlight. He could almost see the sweep of the shining scythes, and
hear the chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank of the whetstone on the long,
curving blades. Chink-a-chank, chink-a-chank--'twas but the clock, and
he in London town.

Carew, sitting there behind the carven prompter's-screen, put down his
head between his hands and listened. There were murmurings a little
while, then silence. Would the boy never begin? He pressed his knuckles
into his temples and waited. Bow Bells rang out the hour; but the room
was as still as a deep sleep. Would the boy never begin?

The precentor sniffed. It was a contemptuous, incredulous sniff. Carew
looked up--his lips white, a fierce red spot in each cheek. He was
talking to himself. "By the whistle of the Lord High Admiral!" he
said--but there he stopped and held his breath. Nick was singing.

Only the old madrigal, with its half-forgotten words that other
generations sang before they fell asleep. How queer it sounded there! It
was a very simple tune, too; yet, as he sang, the old precentor started
from his chair and pressed his wrinkled hands together against his
breast. He quite forgot the sneer upon his face, and it went fading out
like breath from a frosty pane.

He had twelve boys who could sing a hundred songs at sight from
unfamiliar notes; who kept the beat and marked the time as if their
throats were pendulums; could syncopate and floriate as readily as
breathe. And this was only a common country song.

But--"That voice, that voice!" he panted to himself: for old Nat Gyles
was music-mad; melody to him was like the very breath of life. And the
boy's high, young voice, soft as a flute and silver clear, throbbed in
the air as if his very heart were singing out of his body in the sound.
And then, like the skylark rising, up, up it went, and up, up, up, till
the older choristers held their breath and feared that the vibrant tone
would break, so slender, film-like was the trembling thread of the boy's
wild skylark song. But no; it trembled there, high, sweet, and clear, a
moment in the air; and then came running, rippling, floating down, as
though some one had set a song on fir