ng, and after it he
was glad to think of nothing. The fire flickered, the clear light of
the electric lamps shone upon the hard, sixteenth-century faces of
the painted angels in the ancient roof; without the wind soughed, and
through it rose the constant, sullen roar of the sea.

Tired, disappointed, unhappy, and full of self-reproaches, for when the
madness was not on him he knew his sin, Morris sank into a doze. Now
music crept softly into his sleep; sweet, thrilling music, causing him
to open his eyes and smile. It was Christmas Eve, and doubtless he heard
the village waifs.

Morris looked up arousing himself to listen, and lo! there before him,
unexpected and ineffable, was Stella; Stella as she appeared that night
on which she had sung to him, just as she finished singing, indeed, when
he stood for a while in the faint moonlight, the flame of inspiration
still flickering in those dark eyes and the sweet lips drawn down a
little as though she were about to weep.

The sight did not astonish him, at the moment he never imagined even
then that this could be her spirit, that his long labours in a soil no
man was meant to till had issued into harvest. Surely it was a dream,
nothing but a dream. He felt no tremors, no cold wind stirred his hair;
his heart did not stand still, nor his breath come short. Why should a
man fear so beautiful a dream? Yet, vaguely enough, he wished that it
might last forever, for it was sweet to see her so--as she had been.
As she had been--yet, was she ever thus? Surely some wand of change had
touched her. She was beautiful, but had she worn that beauty? And those
eyes! Could any such have shone in the face of woman?

"Stella," he whispered, and from roof and walls crept back the echo of
his voice. He rose and went towards her. She had vanished. He returned,
and there she was.

"Speak!" he muttered; "speak!" But no word came, only the lovely
changeless eyes shone on and watched him.

Listen! Music seemed to float about the room, such music as he had never
heard--even Stella could not make the like. The air was full of it, the
night without was full of it, millions of voices took up the chant, and
from far away, note by note, mighty organs and silver trumpets told its
melody.

His brain reeled. In the ocean of those unimagined harmonies it was
tossed like a straw upon a swirling river, tossed and overwhelmed.

Slowly, very slowly, as the straw might be sucked into the heart of a
whirl