conscious of
the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which
had so often soothed his spirit were hovering again about him! What
power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars
that here and there appeared; the evening air, the City's hum and stir,
the very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthrallment,
that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes
could not have held them captive in a stronger chain?

The shadows deepened, deepened, and the room became quite dark. Still
Tom's fingers wandered over the keys of the piano, and still the window
had its pair of tenants. At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her
breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.

'Dear me!' he cried, desisting with a start. 'I am afraid I have been
very inconsiderate and unpolite.'

Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!

'Sing something to us, my dear,' said Tom, 'let us hear your voice.
Come!'

John Westlock added his entreaties with such earnestness that a flinty
heart alone could have resisted them. Hers was not a flinty heart. Oh,
dear no! Quite another thing.

So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom
loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few
simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time
while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend;
words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music
might have been the poet's breath, giving utterance and expression to
his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the
singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked
little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners' hearts again;
these were the simple means she used to please them. And that these
simple means prevailed, and she DID please them, let the still darkened
chamber, and its long-deferred illumination witness.

The candles came at last, and it was time for moving homeward. Cutting
paper carefully, and rolling it about the stalks of those same flowers,
occasioned some delay; but even this was done in time, and Ruth was
ready.

'Good night!' said Tom. 'A memorable and delightful visit, John! Good
night!'

John thought he would walk with them.

'No, no. Don't!' said Tom. 'What nonsense! We can get home very well
alone. I couldn't think of taki