the glens of heather, and the mountain-brooks, and
the rowans. But, come to an end, what are we all? This man's eyes will
tell ye! I would give white and red, nectar and snow and roses, and
all the similes that ever were for--"

"For what?" said I.

"I think, for Robin Herrick," she said.

It was a lamentable confession, for that said, gravity fled away; and
Electra fetched out a lute from a low cupboard in the arbour, and
while she played Julia sang to a sober little melody I seemed to know
of old:

Sighs have no skill
To wake from sleep
Love once too wild, too deep.

Gaze if thou will,
Thou canst not harm
Eyes shut to subtle charm.

Oh! 'tis my silence
Shows thee false,
Should I be silent else?

Haste thou then by!
Shine not thy face
On mine, and love's disgrace!

Whereat Dianeme lifted on me so naive an afflicted face I must needs
beseech another song, despite my drowsy lids. Wherefore I heard, far
away as it were, the plucking of the strings, and a voice betwixt
dream and wake sing:

All sweet flowers
Wither ever,
Gathered fresh
Or gathered never;
But to live when love is gone!--
Grieve, grieve, lute, sadly on!

All I had--
'Twas all thou gav'st me;
That foregone,
Ah! what can save me?
If the exorcised spirit fly,
Nought is left to love me by.

Take thy stars,
My tears then leave me;
Thine my bliss,
As thine to grieve me;
Take....

For then, so insidious was the music, and not quite of this earth the
voice, my senses altogether forsook me, and I fell asleep.

Would that I could remember much else! But I confess it is the heart
remembers, not the poor, pestered brain that has so many thoughts and
but one troubled thinker. Indeed, were I now to be asked--Were the
fingers cold of these bright ladies? Were their eyes blue, or hazel,
or brown? or, haply, were Dianeme's that incomparable, dark, sparkling
grey? Wore Julia azure, and Electra white? And was that our poet wrote
our poet's only, or truly theirs, and so even more lovely?--I fear I
could not tell.

I fell asleep; and when I awoke no lute was sounding. I was alone; and
the arbour a little house of gloom on the borders of evening. I caught
up yet one more handful of cherries, and stumbled out, heavy and dim,
into a pale-green f