cal preparation,'
said Mrs. Rossall, as she took a seat by the girl's side. 'I wonder
whether we ought to close the windows; are you afraid of the air?'

'Oh, leave them open!' Beatrice replied. 'It is so close.'

Her cheeks had a higher colour than usual; she lay back in the chair
with face turned upwards, her eyes dreaming.

'You are tired, I am afraid,' Mrs. Rossall said, 'in spite of your sleep
in the hammock. The first day in the country always tires me
dreadfully.'

'Yes, I suppose I am, a little,' murmured Beatrice.

'Not too tired, I hope, to sing,' said Wilfrid, coming from his couch in
the corner to a nearer seat. His way of speaking was not wholly natural;
like his attitude, it had something constrained; he seemed to be
discharging a duty.

'Observe the selfishness of youth,' remarked Mr. Athel.

'Age, I dare say, has its selfishness too in the present instance,' was
Mrs. Rossall's rejoinder.

'To whom does that refer?' questioned her brother, jocosely.

Beatrice turned her head suddenly towards Emily.

'Shall I sing, Miss Hood?' she asked, with a touch of her _ingenue_
manner, though the playfulness of her words rang strangely.

'It will give me much pleasure to hear you,' was the sober reply, coming
after an instant of embarrassment.

Beatrice rose. Her movement across the room had a union of conscious
stateliness and virgin grace which became her style of beauty; it was in
itself the introduction to fine music. Mrs. Rossall went to accompany.
Choice was made of a solo from an oratorio; Beatrice never sang
trivialities of the day, a noteworthy variance from her habits in other
things. In a little while, Wilfrid stirred to enable himself to see
Emily's face; it showed deep feeling. And indeed it was impossible to
hear that voice and remain unmoved; its sweetness, its force, its skill
were alike admirable. Beatrice conversing was quite other than Beatrice
when she sang; music was her mode of self-utterance; from the first
sustained note it was felt that a difficulty of expression had been
overcome, and that she was saying things which at other times she could
not, disclosing motives which as a rule the complexities of her
character covered and concealed, which were not clear to her own
consciousness till the divine impulse gave them form. It was no shallow
nature that could pour forth this flood of harmony. The mere gift of a
splendid voice, wrought to whatever degree of perfection, would not
i