en now when you touch the piano or violin; be
content, then, with your great gift, which most surely _is_ yours. And
to me, indeed, it seems a grander thing to thrill and enchain and draw
to your feet all hearts by the power of harmony that dwells within you,
than by the divine gift of song that poets have."

"But their songs _are_ harmony," says the child, turning quickly to her.

"Ay, the interpretation of it, but you have its very breath. No; search
the world over, and you will find nothing so powerful to affect the
souls of all as music."

"Well some day I shall want to do something," says Kit, vaguely; and
then she turns to the window again, and lets her mind wander and lose
itself in a mute sonata to the fair Isis throned above.

"It draws me," she says, presently, rising slowly and addressing Monica,
but always with her gaze fixed upon the sleeping garden down below. "It
is so bright,--so clear."

"What, Kit?"

"The moonlight. I must," restlessly, "go down into it for a little
moment, or I shall not sleep through longing for it."

"But the doors are closed, my dearest, and Aunt Priscilla is in bed, and
so are the servants."

"So much the better. I can draw the bolts myself without being
questioned. You said just now," gayly, "I have a fairy beneath my
fingers. I think I have a moon-fairy in my heart, because I love it so."

"Stay here with me, then, and worship it sensibly from my window."

"What! do you look for sense in 'moon-struck madness'? No; I shall go
down to my scented garden. I have a fancy I cannot conquer to walk into
that tiny flame-white path of moonlight over there near the hedge. Do
you see it?"

"Yes. Well, go, if Titania calls you, but soon return, and bring me a
lily,--I, too, have a fancy, you see,--a tall lily, fresh with dew and
moonshine."

"You shall have the tallest, the prettiest I can find," says Kit from
the doorway, where she stands framed unknowingly, looking such a
slender, ethereal creature, with eyes too large for her small face, that
Monica, with a sudden pang of fear, goes swiftly up to her, and,
pressing her to her heart, holds her so for a moment.

"I know what you are thinking now," says Kit, with another laugh,--"that
I shall die early."

"Kit! Kit!"

"Yes. Isn't it strange? I can read most people's thoughts. But be happy
about me. I look fragile, I know, but I shall not die until I am quite a
respectable age. Not a hideous age, you will understand, but wi