ed out of the novel she had just
laid down. She held out her hand to Eric, and her sweet voice was yet
more gentle than wont, for he had been ill. His face flushed at the
tone. But although she spoke kindly, he could hardly have fancied that
she showed him special favour.

Robert stood with his violin under his arm, feeling as awkward as if he
had never handled anything more delicate than a pitchfork. But Mysie sat
down to the table, and began to pour out the tea, and he came to himself
again. Presently her father entered. His greeting was warm and mild and
sleepy. He had come from poring over Spotiswood, in search of some Will
o' the wisp or other, and had grown stupid from want of success. But
he revived after a cup of tea, and began to talk about northern
genealogies; and Ericson did his best to listen. Robert wondered at the
knowledge he displayed: he had been tutor the foregoing summer in one
of the oldest and poorest, and therefore proudest families in Caithness.
But all the time his host talked Ericson's eyes hovered about Mysie,
who sat gazing before her with look distraught, with wide eyes and
scarce-moving eyelids, beholding something neither on sea or shore;
and Mr. Lindsay would now and then correct Ericson in some egregious
blunder; while Mysie would now and then start awake and ask Robert or
Ericson to take another cup of tea. Before the sentence was
finished, however, she would let it die away, speaking the last words
mechanically, as her consciousness relapsed into dreamland. Had not
Robert been with Ericson, he would have found it wearisome enough; and
except things took a turn, Ericson could hardly be satisfied with the
pleasure of the evening. Things did take a turn.

'Robert has brought his fiddle,' said Ericson, as the tea was removed.

'I hope he will be kind enough to play something,' said Mr. Lindsay.

'I'll do that,' answered Robert, with alacrity. 'But ye maunna expec'
ower muckle, for I'm but a prentice-han',' he added, as he got the
instrument ready.

Before he had drawn the bow once across it, attention awoke in Mysie's
eyes; and before he had finished playing, Ericson must have had quite as
much of the 'beauty born of murmuring sound' as was good for him. Little
did Mysie think of the sky of love, alive with silent thoughts, that
arched over her. The earth teems with love that is unloved. The universe
itself is one sea of infinite love, from whose consort of harmonies if a
stray note s