beautiful answer," said the
man, "and it gives me a lesson in manners; but will you not sit a little
with us in the shade?--and you shall hear a concert of music such as I
dare say you shall hardly hear out of France or Italy. Do you practise
music, child, the divine gift?"

"I love it a little," said Paul, "but I have no skill."

"Yet you look to me like one who might have skill," said the man; "you
have the air of it--you look as though you listened, and as though you
dreamed pleasant dreams. But, Jack," he said, turning to his boy, "what
shall we give our friend?--shall he have the 'Song of the Rose' first?"

The boy at this word drew a little metal pipe out of his doublet, and
put it to his lips; and the man reached out his hand and took up a small
lute which lay on the bank beside him. He held up a warning finger to
the boy. "Remember," he said, "that you come in at the fifth chord,
together with the voice--not before." He struck four simple chords on
the lute, very gently, and with a sort of dainty preciseness; and then
at the same moment the little pipe and his own voice began; the pipe
played a simple descant in quicker time, with two notes to each note of
the song, and the man in a brisk and simple way, as it were at the edge
of his lips, sang a very sweet little country song, in a quiet homely
measure.

There seemed to Paul to be nothing short of magic about it. There was a
beautiful restraint about the voice, which gave him a sense both of
power and feeling held back; but it brought before him a sudden picture
of a garden, and the sweet life of the flowers and little trees, taking
what came, sunshine and rain, and just living and smiling, breathing
fragrant breath from morning to night, and sleeping a light sleep till
they should waken to another tranquil day. He listened as if
spellbound. There were but three verses, and though he could not
remember the words, it seemed as though the rose spoke and told her
dreams.

He could have listened for ever; but the voice made a sudden stop, not
prolonging the last note, but keeping very closely to the time; the pipe
played a little run, like an echo of the song, the man struck a brisk
chord on the lute--and all was over. "Bravely played, Jack!" said the
singer; "no musician could have played it better. You remembered what I
told you, to keep each note separate, and have no gliding. This song
must trip from beginning to end, like a brisk bird that hops on the
g