ather rest?"

"Music _is_ rest," said Lorimer rather dreamily, watching her as she
rose from her seat,--a tall, supple, lithe figure,--and moved towards
the instrument. "And _your_ voice. Miss Gueldmar, would soothe the most
weary soul that ever dwelt in clay."

She glanced round at him, surprised at his sad tone.

"Ah, you are very, very tired, Mr. Lorimer, I am sure! I will sing you a
Norse cradle-song to make you go to sleep. You will not understand the
words though--will that matter?"

"Not in the least!" answered Lorimer, with a smile. "The London girls
sing in German, Italian, Spanish, and English. Nobody knows what they
are saying: they scarcely know themselves--but it's all right, and quite
fashionable."

Thelma laughed gaily. "How funny!" she exclaimed. "It is to amuse
people, I suppose! Well,--now listen." And, playing a soft prelude, her
rich contralto rippled forth in a tender, passionate, melancholy
melody,--so sweet and heart-penetrating that the practical Macfarlane
sat as one in a dream,--Duprez forgot to finish making the cigarette he
was daintily manipulating between his fingers, and Lorimer had much ado
to keep tears from his eyes. From one song she glided to another and yet
another; her soul seemed possessed by the very spirit of music.
Meanwhile Errington, in obedience to an imperative sign from old
Gueldmar, left the saloon, with him,--once outside the doors the _bonde_
said in a somewhat agitated voice--

"I desire to speak to you, Sir Philip, alone and undisturbed, if such a
thing be possible."

"By all means!" answered Philip. "Come to my 'den' on deck. We shall be
quite solitary there."

He led the way, and Olaf Gueldmar followed him in silence.

It was raining fiercely, and the waves, green towers of strength, broke
every now and then over the sides of the yacht with a hissing shower of
salt white spray. The thunder rolled along the sky in angry
reverberating echoes,--frequent flashes of lightning leaped out like
swords drawn from dark scabbards,--yet towards the south the sky was
clearing, and arrowy beams of pale gold fell from the hidden sun, with a
soothing and soft lustre on the breast of the troubled water.

Gueldmar looked about him, and heaved a deep sigh of refreshment. His
eyes rested lovingly on the tumbling billows,--he bared his white head
to the wind and rain.

"This is the life, the blood, the heart of a man!" he said, while a sort
of fierce delight shone in his ke