“Wotan, you say, forgives Brunnhilde, but doesn’t he put her to sleep on a fire-surrounded rock?”

“He puts her to sleep on the rock, but it is she who asks for flames to protect her from the unworthy.  Wotan grants her request, and Brunnhilde throws herself enraptured into his arms.  ’Let the coward shun Brunnhilde’s rock—­for but one shall win—­the bride who is freer than I, the god!’”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?  Then with what flames shall I surround you?”

“I don’t know, I’ve often wondered; the flame of a promise—­a promise never to leave you again, father.  I can promise no more.”

“I want no other promise.”

The eyes of the portrait were fixed on them, and they wondered what would be the words of the dead woman if she could speak.

Agnes announced that the coachman had returned.

“Father, I’ve lots of things to see to.  I’m going to stop to dinner if you’ll let me.”

“I’m afraid, Evelyn—­Agnes—­”

“You need not trouble about the dinner—­Agnes and I will see to that.  We have made all necessary arrangements.”

“Is that your carriage?...  You’ve got a fine pair of horses.  Well, one can’t be Evelyn Innes for nothing.  But if you’re stopping to dinner, you’d better stop the night.  I’m giving the ‘Missa Brevis’ to-morrow.  I’m giving it in honour of Monsignor Mostyn.  It was he who helped me to overcome Father Gordon.”

“You shall tell me all about Monsignor after dinner.”

He walked about the room, unwittingly singing the Lied, “Winter storms wane in the winsome May,” and he stopped before the harpsichord, thinking he saw her still there.  And his thoughts sailed on, vagrant as clouds in a Spring breeze.  She had come back, his most wonderful daughter had come back.

He turned from his wife’s portrait, fearing the thought that her joy on their daughter’s return might be sparer than his.  But unpleasant thoughts fell from him, and happiness sang in his brain like spring-awakened water-courses, and the scent in his nostrils was of young leaves and flowers, and his very flesh was happy as the warm, loosening earth in spring. “‘Winter storms,’” he sang, “’wane in the winsome May; with tender radiance sparkles the spring.’  I must hear her sing that; I must hear her intercede at Wotan’s feet!” His eyes filled with happy tears, and he put questions aside.  She was coming to-morrow to hear his choir.  And what would she think of it?  A shadow passed across his face.  If he had known she was coming, he’d have taken more trouble with those altos; he’d have kept them another hour....  Then, taken with a sudden craving to see her, he went to the door and called to her.

“Evelyn.”

“Yes, father.”

“You are stopping to-night?”

“Yes, but I can’t stop to speak with you now—­I’m busy with Agnes.”