‘Observe the selfishness of youth,’ remarked Mr. Athel.

‘Age, I dare say, has its selfishness too in the present instance,’ was Mrs. Rossall’s rejoinder.

‘To whom does that refer?’ questioned her brother, jocosely.

Beatrice turned her head suddenly towards Emily.

‘Shall I sing, Miss Hood?’ she asked, with a touch of her ingenue manner, though the playfulness of her words rang strangely.

‘It will give me much pleasure to hear you,’ was the sober reply, coming after an instant of embarrassment.

Beatrice rose.  Her movement across the room had a union of conscious stateliness and virgin grace which became her style of beauty; it was in itself the introduction to fine music.  Mrs. Rossall went to accompany.  Choice was made of a solo from an oratorio; Beatrice never sang trivialities of the day, a noteworthy variance from her habits in other things.  In a little while, Wilfrid stirred to enable himself to see Emily’s face; it showed deep feeling.  And indeed it was impossible to hear that voice and remain unmoved; its sweetness, its force, its skill were alike admirable.  Beatrice conversing was quite other than Beatrice when she sang; music was her mode of self-utterance; from the first sustained note it was felt that a difficulty of expression had been overcome, and that she was saying things which at other times she could not, disclosing motives which as a rule the complexities of her character covered and concealed, which were not clear to her own consciousness till the divine impulse gave them form.  It was no shallow nature that could pour forth this flood of harmony.  The mere gift of a splendid voice, wrought to whatever degree of perfection, would not invest with this rare power.  In technical qualities she might have much still to learn, but the passionate poetry of her notes was what no training could have developed, and it would never evince itself with more impressiveness than to-night.

It seemed frivolous to speak thanks.  Wilfrid gazed out into the dark of the garden; Emily kept her eyes bent downward.  She heard the rustle of Beatrice’s dress near her.  Mr. Athel began to speak of the piece the sound of Beatrice’s voice replying caused Emily at length to look up, and she met the dark eyes, still large with the joy of song.  Her own gaze had a beautiful solemnity, a devout admiration, of which it was impossible to doubt the genuineness; Beatrice, observing it, smiled very slightly before turning away again.

A quarter of an hour after, Emily withdrew.  Mrs. Rossall played a little, and talk of an idle kind followed.  Wilfrid was not disposed to take his usual part in conversation, and his casual remarks were scarcely ever addressed to Beatrice.  Presently Mrs. Rossall wished to refer to the ‘Spectator,’ which contained a criticism of a new pianist of whom there was much talk just then.

‘Have you had it, Wilf?’ Mr. Athel asked, after turning over a heap of papers in vain.