She read the line in an undertone, slowly towards the close.  Miriam’s face showed a sudden and curious emotion.  Glancing at the book, she said abruptly: 

“No; that’s an old mark—­a difficulty I had.  I’m long past that.”

“So am I.  ‘Amor ch’a null’—­’”

Miriam stretched out her hand and took the volume with impatience.

“I’m at the end of this canto,” she said, pointing.  “Never mind it now.  I should have thought you would have gone somewhere such a fine afternoon.”

“That sounds remarkably like a hint that patience is near its end.”

“I didn’t mean it for that.”

“Then let us get a carriage and drive somewhere together, we two alone.”

Miriam shook her head.

“Because it is Sunday?” asked Cecily, with a mischievous smile, leaning her head aside.

“There is an understanding between us, Cecily.  Don’t break it.”

“But I told you my mood was wicked.  I feel disposed to break any and every undertaking.  I should like to fret and torment and offend you.  I should like to ask you why I am allowed to enjoy the sunshine, and you not? Oggi e festa!  What a dreadful sound that must have in your ears Miriam!”

“But they don’t apply it to Sunday,” returned the other, who seemed to resign herself to this teasing.

“Indeed they do!” With a sudden change of subject, Cecily added, “Your brother came to see us yesterday, to say good-bye.”

“Did he?”

“It doesn’t interest you.  You care nothing where he goes, or what he does—­nothing whatever, Miriam.  He told me so; but I knew it already.”

“He told you so?” Miriam asked, with cold surprise.

“Yes.  You are unkind; you are unnatural.”

“And you, Cecily, are childish.  I never knew you so childish as to-day.”

“I warned you.  He and I had a long talk before aunt came home.”

“I’m sorry he should have thought it necessary to talk about himself.”

“What more natural, when he is beginning a new portion of life?  Never mind; we won’t speak of it.  May I play you a new piece I have learnt?”

“Do you mean, of sacred music?”

“Sacred?  Why, all music is sacred.  There are tunes and jinglings that I shouldn’t call so; but neither do I call them music, just as I distinguish between bad or foolish verse, and poetry.  Everything worthy of being called art is sacred.  I shall keep telling you that till in self-defence you are forced to think about it.  And now I shall play the piece whether you like it or not.”

She opened the piano.  What she had in mind was one of the “Moments Musicaux” of Schubert—­a strain of exquisite melody, which ceased too soon.  Cecily sat for a few moments at the key-board after she had finished, her head bent; then she came and stood before Miriam.

“Do you like it?”

There was no answer.  She looked steadily at the trouble a ace, and, as it still kept averted from her, she laid her arms softly, half playfully, about Miriam’s neck.