ing, nor such
of the English as have withstood the test of time. The larger portions
of the shelves seemed, however, devoted to philosophical works. Here
alone was novelty admitted, the newest essays on science, or the best
editions of old works thereon. Lionel at length made his choice,--a
volume of the "Faerie Queene." Coffee was served; at a later hour tea.
The clock struck ten. Darrell laid down his book.

"Mr. Fairthorn, the flute!"

From the recess a mutter; and presently--the musician remaining still
hidden--there came forth the sweetest note,--so dulcet, so plaintive!
Lionel's ear was ravished. The music suited well with the enchanted page
through which his fancy had been wandering dreamlike,--the flute with
the "Faerie Queene." As the air flowed liquid on, Lionel's eyes filled
with tears. He did not observe that Darrell was intently watching him.
When the music stopped, he turned aside to wipe the tears from his eyes.
Somehow or other, what with the poem, what with the flute, his thoughts
had wandered far, far hence to the green banks and blue waves of the
Thames,--to Sophy's charming face, to her parting childish gift! And
where was she now? Whither passing away, after so brief a holiday, into
the shadows of forlorn life? Darrell's bell-like voice smote his ear.

"Spenser; you love him! Do you write poetry?" "No, sir: I only feel it!"

"Do neither!" said the host, abruptly. Then, turning away, he lighted
his candle, murmured a quick good-night, and disappeared through a
side-door which led to his own rooms.

Lionel looked round for Fairthorn, who now emerged _ab anqulo_ from his
nook.

"Oh, Mr. Fairthorn, how you have enchanted me! I never believed the
flute could have been capable of such effects!"

Mr. Fairthorn's grotesque face lighted up. He took off his spectacles,
as if the better to contemplate the face of his eulogist. "So you were
pleased! really?" he said, chuckling a strange, grim chuckle, deep in
his inmost self.

"Pleased! it is a cold word! Who would not be more than pleased?"

"You should hear me in the open air."

"Let me do so-to-morrow."

"My dear young sir, with all my heart. Hist!"--gazing round as if
haunted,--"I like you. I wish him to like you. Answer all his questions
as if you did not care how he turned you inside out. Never ask him a
question, as if you sought to know what he did not himself confide. So
there is some thing, you think, in a flute, after all? There are peop