his own heart had no hearthstone where he might warm himself and be content.  Sometimes as he lay alone upon the bare earth, counting the stars, he caught the gleam from such a home clear shining over the plain, and he told himself that when he had numbered all the stars like sheep in a fold, then would he turn and give his heart rest beside some lower light....  So he kept on with his Phrygian melodies, and they brought him friends and enemies; but no lover hastening over the plain stayed to listen, and the shepherd was sorry for that, because he thought that the others, though they heard, did not fully understand.”

The narrator paused.  The maid of honor’s hands were idle in her lap; with level gaze she sat in a dream.  “Yet some there be who might have understood,” she said, and scarce knew that she had spoken.

“Now Cleon had a friend whom he loved, the shepherd Astrophel, who sang more sweetly than any in all that plain, and Astrophel would oft urge Cleon to his dwelling, which was a fair one, with shady groves, sunny lawns, and springing fountains.”

“Ah, sweet Sidney, dear Penshurst!” breathed the lady, softly.

“Now upon a day—­indeed, ’tis little more than a year ago—­Cleon, returning to the plain from a far journey, found Astrophel, who, taking no denial, would have him to those sunny lawns and springing fountains.  There was dust upon the spirit of the shepherd Cleon:  that had happened which had left in his mouth the taste of Dead Sea fruit; almost was he ready to break his pipe across, and to sit still forever, covering his face.  But Astrophel, knowing in himself how he would have felt in his dearest part that wound which his friend had received, was skilled to heal, and with wise counsel and honeyed words at last won Cleon to visit him.”

“A year and more ago,” said Damaris, dreamily.

“On such a day as this, Cleon and Astrophel came to the latter’s home, where, since Astrophel was as a magnet-stone to draw unto him the noblest of his kind, they found a goodly gathering of the chiefest of the dwellers in the plain.  Nor were lacking young shepherdesses, nymphs, and ladies as virtuous as they were fair, for Astrophel’s sister was such an one as Astrophel’s sister should be.”

“Most dear, most sweet Countess,” murmured Damaris.

“Cleon and Astrophel were made welcome by this goodly company, after which all addressed themselves to those sports of that country for which the day had been devised.  But though he made merry with the rest, nor was in anything behind them, Cleon’s heart was yet heavy within him....  Aurora, fast flying, turned a rosy cheek, then the night hid her path with his spangled mantle, and all this company of shepherdish folk left the gray lawns for Astrophel’s house, that was lit with clear wax and smelled sweet of roses.  And after a while, when there had been comfit talk and sipping of sweet wine, one sang, and another followed, while the company listened, for they were of those who have ears to hear.  Colin sang of Rosalind; Damon, of Myra; Astrophel, of Stella; Cleon, of—­none of these things.  ‘Sing of love!’ they cried, and he sang of friendship;’ Of the love of a woman!’ and he sang to the honor of a man.”