her loud or faint, but exquisitely modulated, like all her
motions. He could say things to her; when he began to talk to Cora,
his words came back upon him as in an echoing hall, and smothered him
with the sound of his own voice. Stella Grayland, sitting composedly,
saying little, stirred him like noble music,--made him strong and
fervid.

They talked of many things, the dark background of his thought giving
a sombre undertone to his part. They came back to music.

"You enjoy it as much as ever?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," she answered; "I think it grows constantly upon you. One's
deficiencies become painfully clearer, and bad music seems to increase
and become more of a trial. But it is a satisfaction to feel that one
grows a little, taking the years together; and it is very pleasant to
know that there will always be plenty to learn and enjoy."

She ended with a little sigh.

He was looking at her, but he only said:

"Yes."

Her words exactly expressed his feeling for literature. He felt as if
they two had been climbing the same hill by different paths, and stood
side by side for a moment looking up to the heights beyond that rose
one above another,--where over the dark pine forests the glittering
snow-peaks pierced the sky and the rivers of ice shone gloriously.

Kate came to tell them that Jenny was asleep, and they went up softly.
Lawrence wrote out his directions for the night and came down, Stella
accompanying him. At the door he paused a moment abstractedly.

"Don't you think it's a great loss for a person to miss the pleasure
and appreciation of a noble art?" he asked, seriously.

She looked at him questioningly, but replied:

"Yes, it makes me very sorry sometimes; it is a great loss. But I
reflect that there are a great many people who get on without it, and
they seem quite contented and happy. I think those who have the
advantage of the finer influences and delights should be very good and
try to prevent the younger ones from growing up without caring for
such things."

"Yes, that is true," he replied, and he went on with suppressed
agitation: "But suppose one should grow up blind to all art and yet
not contented or happy, without any true knowledge, or faith, or
cultivation but the outward seeming, unsettled, unsatisfied, hungering
for one knows not what, despising all that one has?"

He leaned back, and neither spoke for a moment. She turned either way
with a shuddering movement.

"That would b