e fancy, but from its
triangles and circles have been born the grandeurs of architecture, and
upright on the threshold of its exact laws and undeviating calculations,
I see an angel with a golden rod in his hand, measuring the heavens."

"Even a stone speaks to a poet," said Mr. Sylvester with a glance at
Miss Belinda.

"But Paula is no poet," returned that lady with strict and impartial
honesty. "She has never put a line on paper to my knowledge. Have you
child?"

"No aunt, I would as soon imprison a falling sunbeam or try to catch the
breeze that lifts my hair or kisses my cheek."

"You see," continued Mr. Sylvester still looking at Miss Belinda.

She answered with a doubtful shake of the head and an earnest glance at
the girl as if she perceived something in that bright young soul, that
even she had never observed before.

"Have you ever been away from home?" he now asked.

"Never, I know as little of the great world as a callow nestling. No, I
should not say that, for the young bird has no Aunt Belinda to tell of
the great cathedrals and the wonderful music she has heard and the
glorious pictures she has seen in her visits to the city. It is almost
as good as travelling one's self to hear Aunt Belinda talk."

It was now the turn of the mature plain woman to blush, which she did
under Mr. Sylvester's searching eye.

"You have then been in the habit of visiting New York?"

"I have been there twice," she returned evasively.

"Since my marriage?"

"Yes sir;" with a firm closing of her lips.

"I did not know you were there or I should have insisted upon your
remaining at my house."

"Thank you," said she with a quick triumphant glance at her demure
little shadow, who looked back in amaze and was about to speak when Miss
Belinda proceeded. "My visits usually have been on business; I should
not think of troubling Mrs. Sylvester." And then he knew that his wife
had been aware of those visits if he had not.

But he refrained from testifying to his discovery. "You speak of music,"
said he, turning gently back to Paula. "Have you a taste for it? Would
it make you happy to hear such music as your aunt tells about?"

"O yes, I can conceive nothing grander than to sit in a church whose
every line is beauty and listen while the great organ utters its song of
triumph or echoes in the wonderful way it does, the emotions you have
tried to express and could not. I would give a whole week of my life on
the hills, de