mt of, and I pray you to let me learn the art of making music; I
must be a minstrel." "'Must' is a grave word, dear heart," said Mistress
Alison, looking somewhat serious; "but let me hear your story first."
So Paul told of his meeting with the minstrel. Mistress Alison sate
musing a long time, smiling when she met Paul's eye, till he said at
last, "Will you not speak, mother?" "I know," she said at last, "whom
you have met, dear child--that is Mark, the great minstrel. He travels
about the land, for he is a restless man, though the king himself would
have him dwell in his court, and make music for him. Yet I have looked
for this day, though it has come when I did not expect it. And now I
must tell you a story, Paul, in my turn. Many years ago there was a boy
like you, and he loved music too and the making of songs, and he grew to
great skill therein. But it was at last his ruin, for he got to love
riotous company and feasting too well; and so his skill forsook him, as
it does those that live not cleanly and nobly. And he married a young
wife, having won her by his songs, and a child was born to them. But the
minstrel fell sick and presently died, and his last prayer was that his
son might not know the temptation of song. And his wife lingered a
little, but she soon pined away, for her heart was broken within her;
and she too died. And now, Paul, listen, for the truth must be told--you
are that child, the son of sorrow and tears. And here you have lived
with me all your life; but because the tale was a sad one, I have
forborne to tell it you. I have waited and wondered to see whether the
gift of the father is given to the son; and sometimes I have thought it
might be yours, and sometimes I have doubted. And now, child, we will
talk of this no more to-day, for it is ill to decide in haste. Think
well over what I have said, and see if it makes a difference in your
wishes. I have told you all the tale."

Now the story that Mistress Alison had told him dwelt very much in
Paul's mind that night; but it seemed to him strange and far off, and he
did not doubt what the end should be. It was as though the sight of the
minstrel, his songs and words, had opened a window in his mind, and that
he saw out of it a strange and enchanted country, of woods and streams,
with a light of evening over it, bounded by far-off hills, all blue and
faint, among which some beautiful thing was hidden for him to find; it
seemed to call him softly to