reams.

Kate felt that she had more room now. And yet the scope of her vision
was less, for the dusk had closed in around her.

She had ampler room because the Material had retired as behind a veil,
leaving the Immaterial less burdened, and the imagination more free to
work its will. The Spiritual is ever putting on material garments; but
in the moonlight, the Material puts on spiritual garments.

Kate sat down at the foot of an old tree which stood alone in one of
the fields. Alec threw himself on the grass, and looked up in her face,
which was the spirit-moon shining into his world, and drowning it in
dreams.--The Arabs always call their beautiful women _moons_.--Kate sat
as silent as the moon in heaven, which rained down silence. And Alec
lay gazing at Kate, till silence gave birth to speech:

"Oh Kate! How I love you!" he said.

Kate started. She was frightened. Her mind had been full of gentle
thoughts. Yet she laid her hand on his arm and accepted the love.--But
how?

"You dear boy!" she said.

Perhaps Kate's answer was the best she could have given. But it stung
Alec to the heart, and they went home in a changed silence.--The
resolution she came to upon the way was not so good as her answer.

She did not love Alec so. He could not understand her; she could not
look up to him. But he was only a boy, and therefore would not suffer
much. He would forget her as soon as she was out of his sight. So as he
was a very dear boy, she would be as kind to him as ever she could, for
she was going away soon.

She did not see that Alec would either take what she gave for more than
she gave, or else turn from it as no gift at all.

When they reached the house, Alec, recovering himself a little,
requested her to sing. She complied at once, and was foolish enough to
sing the following

BALLAD.

It is May, and the moon leans down all night
Over a blossomy land.
By her window sits the lady white,
With her chin upon her hand.

"O sing to me, dear nightingale,
The song of a year ago;
I have had enough of longing and wail,
Enough of heart-break and woe.

O glimmer on me, my apple-tree,
Like living flakes of snow;
Let odour and moonlight and melody
In the old rich harmony flow."

The dull odours stream; the cold blossoms gleam;
And the bird will not be glad.
The dead never speak when the living dream--
They are too weak and sad.

She listened and sate, till night gr