ard; and Paul knew in
his mind that it was she that had sung; and there passed through his
heart a feeling he had never known before; it was as though it were a
string that thrilled with a kind of delicious pain at being bidden by
the touch of a finger to utter its voice.

"This is my daughter Margaret," said the Lady Beckwith; "she knows
your fame in song, but she has never had the fortune to hear you sing,
and she loves song herself."

"And does more than love it," said Paul almost tremblingly, feeling
the eyes of the maiden set upon his face; "for I heard but now a lute
touched, and a voice that sang a melody I know not, as few that I know
could have sung it."

The maiden stood smiling at him, and then Paul saw that she carried a
lute in her hand; and she said eagerly, "Will you not sing to us, Sir
Paul?"

"Nay," said the Lady Beckwith, smiling, "but this is beyond courtesy!
It is to ask a prince to our house, and beg for the jewels that he
wears."

The maiden blushed rosy red, and put the lute by; but Paul stretched
out his hand for it. "I will sing most willingly," he said. "What is
my life for, but to make music for those who would hear?"

He touched a few chords to see that the lute was well tuned; and the
lute obeyed his touch like a living thing; and then Paul sang a song
of springtime that made the hearts of the pair dance with joy. When he
had finished, he smiled, meeting the smiles of both; and said, "And
now we will have a sad song--for those are ever the sweetest--joy
needs not to be made sweet."

So he sang a sorrowful song that he had made one winter day, when he
had found the body of a little bird that had died of the frost and the
hard silence of the unfriendly earth--a song of sweet things broken
and good times gone by; and before he had finished he had brought the
tears to the eyes of the pair. The Lady Beckwith brushed them
aside--but the girl sate watching him, her hands together, and a kind
of worship in her face, with the bright tears, trembling on her
cheeks. And Paul thought he had never seen a fairer thing; but wishing
to dry the tears, he made a little merry song, like the song of gnats
that dance up and down in the sun, and love their silly play--so that
the two smiled again.

Then they thanked him very urgently, and Margaret said, "If only dear
Helen could hear this"; and the Lady Beckwith said, "Helen is my other
daughter, and she lies abed, and may not come forth."

Then they