familiar element of delicious sound, as the
water-plant that lies withered and shrunken on the ground expands into
freedom and beauty when once more bathed in its native flood.

Maynard thanked God. An active power was re-awakened, and must make a new
epoch in Caterina's recovery.

Presently there were low liquid notes blending themselves with the harder
tones of the instrument, and gradually the pure voice swelled into
predominance. Little Ozzy stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth
open and his legs very wide apart, struck with something like awe at this
new power in 'Tin-Tin,' as he called her, whom he had been accustomed to
think of as a playfellow not at all clever, and very much in need of his
instruction on many subjects. A genie soaring with broad wings out of his
milkjug would not have been more astonishing.

Caterina was singing the very air from the _Orfeo_ which we heard her
singing so many months ago at the beginning of her sorrows. It was '_Ho
perduto_', Sir Christopher's favourite, and its notes seemed to carry on
their wings all the tenderest memories of her life, when Cheverel Manor
was still an untroubled home. The long happy days of childhood and
girlhood recovered all their rightful predominance over the short
interval of sin and sorrow.

She paused, and burst into tears--the first tears she had shed since she
had been at Foxholm. Maynard could not help hurrying towards her, putting
his arm round her, and leaning down to kiss her hair. She nestled to him,
and put up her little mouth to be kissed.

The delicate-tendrilled plant must have something to cling to. The soul
that was born anew to music was born anew to love.

Chapter 21

On the 30th of May 1790, a very pretty sight was seen by the villagers
assembled near the door of Foxholm Church. The sun was bright upon the
dewy grass, the air was alive with the murmur of bees and the trilling of
birds, the bushy blossoming chestnuts and the foamy flowering hedgerows
seemed to be crowding round to learn why the church-bells were ringing so
merrily, as Maynard Gilfil, his face bright with happiness, walked out of
the old Gothic doorway with Tina on his arm. The little face was still
pale, and there was a subdued melancholy in it, as of one who sups with
friends for the last time, and has his ear open for the signal that will
call him away. But the tiny hand rested with the pressure of contented
affection on Maynard's arm, and the d