clear enough; they were a lament, the
lament of some sorrowing woman, the sweet embodiment of an ancient and
forgotten grief thus embalmed in heavenly music.

It was done; the echoes of the following notes of the violin fainted and
died among the carven angels of the roof. It was done, and Morris sighed
aloud.

"How can I thank you?" he said. "I knew that you were a musician, but
not that you had such genius. To listen to you makes a man feel very
humble."

She laughed. "The voice is a mere gift, for which no one deserves
credit, although, of course, it can be improved."

"If so, what of the accompaniment?"

"That is different; that comes from the heart and hard work. Do you know
that when I was under my old master out in Denmark, who in his time was
one of the finest of violinists in the north of Europe, I often played
for five and sang for two hours a day? Also, I have never let the thing
drop; it has been the consolation and amusement of a somewhat lonely
life. So, by this time, I ought to understand my art, although there
remains much to be learnt."

"Understand it! Why, you could make a fortune on the stage."

"A living, perhaps, if my voice will bear the continual strain. I
daresay that some time I shall drift there--for the living--not because
I like the trade or have any wish for popular success. It is a fact that
I had far rather sing alone to you here to-night, and know that you are
pleased, than be cheered by a whole opera house full of strange people."

"And I--oh, I cannot explain! Sing on, sing all you can, for to-morrow I
must go away."

"Go away!" she faltered.

"Yes; I will explain to you afterwards. But please sing while I am here
to listen."

The words struck heavy on her heart, numbing it--why, she knew not. For
a moment she felt helpless, as though she could neither sing nor play.
She did not wish him to go; she did not wish him to go. Her intellect
came to her aid. Why should he go? Heaven had given her power, and this
man could feel its weight. Would it not suffice to keep him from going?
She would try; she would play and sing as she had never done before;
sing till his heart was soft, play till his feet had no strength to
wander beyond the sound of the sweet notes her art could summon from
this instrument of strings and wood.

So again she began, and played on, and on, and on, from time to time
letting the bow fall, to sing in a flood of heavenly melody that seemed
by nature to f