"Love in her eyes sits playing,
     And sheds delicious death;
     Love on her lips is straying,
     And warbling in her breath."

Probably never was there a melody which more perfectly illustrated that sort of love, the idealization of fancy and feeling, with just a glimmer of real passion quivering through it—­the light cast in advance by the yet unrisen day.

“Not that song, Arthur.  It is rather difficult besides, Papa might not care to hear it.”

“Papa might if he were tried,” said Dr. Grey, smiling, “Why not do to please me what you do to please the children?”

So Christian sang at once—­ay, and that very song.  She faced it.  She determined she would, with all the ghosts of the past that hovered round it.  And soon she found how, thus faced, as says that other lovely song of Handel’s, which she had learned at the same time: 

    "The wandering shadows, ghostly pale,
     All troop to their infernal jail: 
     Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave."

Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the past.  She had begun her song feebly and uncertainly; but when she really heard the sound of her own voice echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of melody that the old walls had not known for centuries, there came upon her an intoxication of enjoyment.  It was that pure enjoyment which all true artists—­be they singers, painters, poets—­understand, and they only—­ the delight in mere creation, quite distinct from any sympathy or admiration of others; and oh how far removed from any mean vanity or love of praise.

Christian was happy—­happy as a lark in the air, just to hear—­and make—­ the sound of her own singing.  Her face brightened; her figure, as she stood leaning against the mantel-piece assumed a new grace and dignity.  She was beautiful—­absolutely beautiful and her husband saw it.

Was it fancy if, glancing at her, Dr. Grey half sighed?  Only for a moment; then he said cheerily: 

“Arthur was right.  Children, tell your mother that she is the best singer we ever heard in all our lives.”

“That she is.  She sings just like a bird in a tree.  And, then, you see, papa, she is our own bird.”

Christian came down from the clouds at once, and laughed heartily at the idea of being Arthur’s own bird.

“Titia,” said Dr. Grey, with sudden energy, as if the thought had been brewing in his mind for many minutes, “is there not a piano in the drawing-room?  There used to be.”

“Yes, and I practice upon it two hours every day,” answered Letitia, with dignity.  “But afterward Aunt Henrietta locks it up and takes the key.  She says it is poor mamma’s piano, and nobody is to play upon it but me.”

As the child said this in a tone so like Aunt Henrietta’s, her father looked—­as Christian had only seen him look once or twice before, and thought that there might be circumstances under which any body displeasing him would be considerably afraid of Dr. Arnold Grey.