all from her lips, note after note, as dew or honey fall
drop by drop from the calyx of some perfect flower. Now long did she
play and sing those sad, mysterious siren songs? They never knew. The
moon travelled on its appointed course, and as its beams passed away
gradually that divine musician grew dimmer to his sight. Now only the
stars threw their faint light about her, but still she played on, and
on, and on. The music swelled, it told of dead and ancient wars, "where
all day long the noise of battle rolled"; it rose shrill and high, and
in it rang the scream of the Valkyries preparing the feast of Odin.
It was low, and sad, and tender, the voice of women mourning for their
dead. It changed; it grew unearthly, spiritualised, such music as those
might use who welcome souls to their long home. Lastly, it became rich
and soft and far as the echo of a dream, and through it could be heard
sighs and the broken words of love, that slowly fell away and melted as
into the nothingness of some happy sleep.

The singer was weary; her fingers could no longer guide the bow; her
voice grew faint. For a moment, she stood still, looking in the flicker
of the fire and the pale beams of the stars like some searcher returned
from heaven to earth. Then, half fainting, down she sank upon a chair.

Morris turned on the lamps, and looked at this fair being, this chosen
home of Music, who lay before him like a broken lily. Then back into his
heart with a chilling shock came the thought that this woman, to him
at least the most beautiful and gifted his eyes had seen, had promised
herself in marriage to Stephen Layard; that she, her body, her mind,
her music--all that made her the Stella Fregelius whom he knew--were the
actual property of Stephen Layard. Could it be true? Was it not possible
that he had made some mistake? that he had misunderstood? A burning
desire came upon him to know, to know before he went, and upon the
forceful impulse of that moment he did what at any other time would have
filled him with horror. He asked her; the words broke from his lips; he
could not help them.

"Is it true," he said, with something like a groan, "can it be true that
you--_you_ are really going to marry that man?"

Stella sat up and looked at him. So she had guessed aright. She made no
pretence of fencing with him, or of pretending that she did not know to
whom he referred.

"Are you mad to ask me such a thing?" she asked, with a strange break in