Emilia understood him, she cited dogs and cats, and birds, and all
things of nature that rejoiced and revelled, in support of the opposite
view.

"Nay, if animals are to be your illustration!" he protested. He had been
perhaps half under the delusion that he spoke with Cornelia, and with a
sense of infinite misery, he compressed the apt distinction that he had
in his mind; which was to show where humanity and simple nature drew a
line, and wherein humanity claimed the loftier seat.

"But such talk must be uttered to a soul," he phrased internally, and
Emilia was denied what belonged to Cornelia.

Hitherto Emilia had refused to sing, and Madame Marini, faithful to her
instructions, had never allowed her to be pressed to sing. Emilia would
brood over notes, thinking: "I can take that; and that; and dwell on
such and such a note for any length of time;" but she would not call up
her voice; she would not look at her treasure. It seemed more to her,
untouched; and went on doubling its worth, until doubtless her idea
of capacity greatly relieved her of the burden on her breast, and
the reflection that she held a charm for all, and held it from all,
flattered one who had been cruelly robbed.

On their way homeward, among the chrysanthemums in the long garden-walk,
they met Tracy Runningbrook, between whose shouts of delight and
Emilia's reserve there was so marked a contrast that one would have
deemed Tracy an offender in her sight. She had said to him entreatingly,
"Do not come," when he volunteered to call on the Marinis in the
evening; and she got away from him as quickly as she could, promising to
be pleased if he called the day following. Tracy flew leaping to one of
the great houses where he was tame cat. When Sir Purcell as they passed
on spoke a contemptuous word of his soft habits and idleness, Emilia
said: "He is one of my true friends."

"And why is he interdicted the visit this evening?"

"Because," she answered, and grew pale, "he--he does not care for music.
I wish I had not met him."

She recollected how Tracy's flaming head had sprung up before her--he
who had always prophesied that she would be famous for arts unknown to
her, and not for song just when she was having a vision of triumph and
caressing the idea of her imprisoned voice bursting its captivity, and
soaring into its old heavens.

"He does not care for music!" interjected Sir Purcell, with something
like a frown. "I have nothing in common wi