you hear it?" she said again. All sorts of images of ill presented
themselves to my imagination: I thought the baby must be ill with croup,
and that she was listening for some stertorous breath of anguish; and
then the dread came over me that perhaps her sorrows had been too much
for her, and that reason had left her seat. At that thought the marrow
froze in my bones.

"Hush," she said again; and just at that moment, as I strained my ears,
I thought I caught upon the sleeping air a distant and very faint
murmur.

"Oh, what is it, Constance?" I said. "You will drive me mad;" and while
I spoke the murmur seemed to resolve itself into the vibration, felt
almost rather than heard, of some distant musical instrument. I stepped
past her into the passage. All was deadly still, but I could perceive
that music was being played somewhere far away; and almost at the same
minute my ears recognised faintly but unmistakably the _Gagliarda_ of
the "Areopagita."

I have already mentioned that for some reason which I can scarcely
explain, this melody was very repugnant to me. It seemed associated in
some strange and intimate way with my brother's indisposition and moral
decline. Almost at the moment that I had heard it first two years ago,
peace seemed to have risen up and left our house, gathering her skirts
about her, as we read that the angels left the Temple at the siege of
Jerusalem. And now it was even more detestable to my ears, recalling as
it did too vividly the cruel events of the preceding evening.

"John must be sitting up playing," I said.

"Yes," she answered; "but why is he in this part of the house, and why
does he always play _that_ tune?"

It was if some irresistible attraction drew us towards the music.
Constance took my hand in hers and we moved together slowly down the
passage. The wind had risen, and though there was a bright moon, her
beams were constantly eclipsed by driving clouds. Still there was light
enough to guide us, and I extinguished the candle. As we reached the end
of the passage the air of the _Gagliarda_ grew more and more distinct.

Our passage opened on to a broad landing with a balustrade, and from one
side of it ran out the picture-gallery which you know.

I looked at Constance significantly. It was evident that John was
playing in this gallery. We crossed the landing, treading carefully and
making no noise with our naked feet, for both of us had been too excited
even to think of putting