e that he remembered;
seductive, full of passion and tenderness--a voice that told its own
story, that told of its owner's power and charm--a voice that carried
away the hearts of the listeners irresistibly as the strong current
carries the leaflet.

She sang of love, mighty, irresistible love, the king before whom all
bow down; and as she sang he looked at her. The soft, pearly light of
the lamps fell on her glorious face, and seemed to render it more
beautiful. He wondered what spell was fast falling over him, for he saw
nothing but Philippa's face, heard nothing but the music that seemed to
steep his senses as in a dream.

How fatally, wondrously lovely she was, this siren who sang to him of
love, until every sense was full of silent ecstasy, until his face
flushed, and his heart beat fast. Suddenly his eyes met hers; the
scarlet lips trembled, the white fingers grew unsteady; her eyelids
drooped, and the sweet music stopped.

She tried to hide her confusion by smiling.

"You should not look at me, Norman," she said, "when I sing; it
embarrasses me."

"You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Philippa," he
rejoined. "What was that last song?"

"It is a new one," she replied, "called 'My Queen.'"

"I should like to read the words," said Lord Arleigh.

In a few minutes she had found it for him, and they bent over the
printed page together; her dark hair touched his cheek, the perfume from
the white lilies she wore seemed to entrance him; he could not
understand the spell that lay over him.

"Is it not beautiful?" she said.

"Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal this poet's
queen."

"You do not know--you cannot tell, Norman. I think any woman who loves,
and loves truly, becomes a queen."

He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice--wondering at
the expression on her beautiful face.

"You are incredulous," she said; "but it is true. Love is woman's
dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes a queen; her heart
and soul grow grander, the light of love crowns her. It is the real
diadem of womanhood, Norman; she knows no other."

He drew back startled; her words seemed to rouse him into sudden
consciousness. She was quick enough to see it, and, with the _distrait_
manner of a true woman of the world, quickly changed the subject. She
asked some trifling question about Beechgrove, and then said, suddenly:

"I should like to see that fine old plac