hat we call fate--if it troubles itself about
so small a thing as the life of one woman."

Then, to change the subject, she began to talk of the Northumberland
moors and mountains, and of their years of rather dreary existence
among them, till at length it was time to leave the table. This they did
together, for even then Morris drank very little wine.

"May I get you the violin, and will you sing?" he asked eagerly, when
they reached the library.

"If you wish it I will try."

"Then come to the chapel; there is a good fire, and it is put away
there."

Presently they were in the ancient place, where Morris produced the
violin from the cupboard, and having set a new string began to tune it.

"That is a very good instrument," said Stella, her eyes shining, "you
don't know what you have brought upon yourself. Playing the violin is
my pet insanity, and once or twice since I have been here, when I wanted
it, I have cried over the loss of mine, especially as I can't afford
to buy another. Oh! what a lovely night it is; look at the full moon
shining on the sea and snow. I never remember her so bright; and the
stars, too; they glitter like great diamonds."

"It is the frost," answered Morris. "Yes, everything is beautiful
to-night."

Stella took the violin, played a note or two, then screwed up the
strings to her liking.

"Do you really wish me to sing, Mr. Monk?" she asked.

"Of course; more than I can tell you."

"Then, will you think me very odd if I ask you to turn out the electric
lamps? I can sing best so. You stand by the fire, so that I can see
my audience; the moon through this window will give me all the light I
want."

He obeyed, and now she was but an ethereal figure, with a patch of red
at her heart, and a line of glimmering white from the silver girdle
beneath her breast, on whose pale face the moonbeams poured sweetly.
For a while she stood thus, and the silence was heavy in that beautiful,
dismantled place of prayer. Then she lifted the violin, and from the
first touch of the bow Morris knew that he was in the presence of a
mistress of one of the most entrancing of the arts. Slow and sweet came
the plaintive, penetrating sounds, that seemed to pass into his heart
and thrill his every nerve. Now they swelled louder, now they almost
died away; and now, only touching the strings from time to time, she
began to sing in her rich, contralto voice. He could not understand the
words, but their burden was