ed up and down on
this improvised AEolian harp. It gradually ran into a regular refrain,
which became more and more like words. Ayrault was puzzled, and then
amazed. There could be no doubt about it. "You should be happy," it
kept repeating--"you should be happy," in soft musical tones.

"I know I should," replied Ayrault, finally recognizing the voice of
Violet Slade in the song of the wind, "and I cannot understand why I am
not. Tell me, is this paradise, Violet, or is it not rather purgatory?"

The notes ranged up and down again, and he perceived that she was
causing the wind to blow as she desired--in other words, she was making
it play upon his harp.

"That depends on the individual," she replied. "It is rather sheol, the
place of departed spirits. Those whose consciences made them happy on
earth are in paradise here; while those good enough to reach heaven at
last, but in whom some dross remains, are further refined in spirit,
and to them it is purgatory. Those who are in love can be happy in but
one way while their love lasts. What IS happiness, anyway?"

"It is the state in which desires are satisfied, my fair Violet,"
answered Ayrault.

"Say, rather, the state in which desire coincides with duty," replied
the song. "Self-sacrifice for others gives the truest joy; being with
the object of one's love, the next. You never believed that I loved
you. I dissembled well; but you will see for yourself some day, as
clearly as I see your love for another now."

"Yes," replied Ayrault, sadly, "I am in love. I have no reason to
believe there is cause for my unrest, and, considering every thing, I
should be happy as man can be; yet, mirabile dictu, I am in--hades, in
the very depths!"

"Your beloved is beyond my vision; your heart is all I can see. Yet I
am convinced she will not forget you. I am sure she loves you still."

"I have always believed in homoeopathy to the extent of the similia
similibus curantur, Violet, and it is certain that where nothing else
will cure a man of love for one woman, his love for another will. You
can see how I love Sylvia, but you have never seemed so sweet to me as
to-day."

"It is a sacrilege, my friend, to speak so to me now. You are done
with me forever. I am but a disembodied spirit, and escaped hades by
the grace of the Omnipotent, rather than by virtue of any good I did on
earth. So far as any elasticity is left in my opportunities, I am dead
as yon moon.