re. . . . When we are in health,
all sounds fife and drum to us; we hear notes of music in the air, or
catch its echoes dying away when we awake in the dawn. Marching is when
the pulse of the hero beats in unison with the pulse of Nature, and he
steps to the measure of the universe; then there is true courage and
invincible strength.'"

"How beautiful that is!" said Margaret.

"Yes; that is the particular passage I wanted to read to you. Have you
ever had that feeling, fancying that you wake to the sound of music? I
often have, when I have been sleeping out in the open--never within
doors."

"No," said Margaret, "I don't think I ever have, Hugh; but what a
pleasant thing it must be! I have never slept in the open, but even if I
should, I fear my waking would be plain prose, like myself."

Hugh laughed, and glanced at her affectionately. "I haven't found much
prose about you, Margaret," he said. "If I had, I should not have read
you my secrets when Thoreau tells them for me. That reminds me, do you
sing? I have not heard you, have I?"

"No; I wish I did, for I love music very much. Oh, I sing a very little,
enough to join in a chorus--if there ever were a chorus at Fernley. I
used to enjoy Rita's singing intensely; she has a very sweet voice."

"Some one was singing last night," Hugh went on; "I don't know why, but
this passage reminds me--I heard a woman's voice singing,--a remarkable
voice."

"Indeed? Where were you? Not in your room? I am sure there is no one in
the house who sings."

"No; it was pretty warm, and the moon--well, you remember, it was all
you could do to go to bed yourself, Margaret. After Virtue, in the shape
of yourself and Uncle John, had gone to bed, Vice, in my shape, wandered
about the garden, I don't know how long. It was wonderful there, with
the trees, and the smell of the roses and box, and--and the whole thing,
you know. Down at the foot of the garden, over in the meadow below, some
one was singing; some one with a remarkable voice; rather deep-toned,
not loud, and yet full, with an extraordinary degree of melody; or, so
it seemed at a distance. I wondered who it was, that was all. You have
no idea, I suppose?"

"No! I wonder too, very much. No one from this house, I am sure of
that. Now that I think of it, though, Polly sings--Polly, the under
housemaid; she has a pretty little bird-like voice, but nothing such as
you describe. I'll make inquiries, though--"

"Oh, pray don't!" s