A pillar of dim silver rain fronted the moon on the hills.  Emilia walked hurriedly, with her head bent, like a penitent:  now and then peeping up and breathing to the keen scent of the tender ferns.  Wilfrid still grasped her hand, and led her across the common, away from the rout.

When the uproar behind them had sunk, he said “You’ll get your feet wet.  I’m sorry you should have to walk.  How did you come here?”

She answered:  “I forget.”

“You must have come here in some conveyance.  Did you walk?”

Again she answered:  “I forget;” a little querulously; perhaps wilfully.

“Well!” he persisted:  “You must have got your harp to this place by some means or other?”

“Yes, my harp!” a sob checked her voice.

Wilfrid tried to soothe her.  “Never mind the harp.  It’s easily replaced.”

“Not that one!” she moaned.

“We will get you another.”

“I shall never love any but that.”

“Perhaps we may hear good news of it to-morrow.”

“No; for I felt it die in my hands.  The third blow was the one that killed it.  It’s broken.”

Wilfrid could not reproach her, and he had not any desire to preach.  So, as no idea of having done amiss in coming to the booth to sing illumined her, and she yet knew that she was in some way guilty, she accused herself of disregard for that dear harp while it was brilliant and serviceable.  “Now I remember what poor music I made of it!  I touched it with cold fingers.  The sound was thin, as if it had no heart.  Tick-tick!—­I fancy I touched it with a dead man’s finger-nails.”

She crossed her wrists tight at the clasp of her waist, and letting her chin fall on her throat, shook her body fretfully, much as a pettish little girl might do.  Wilfrid grimaced.  “Tick-tick” was not a pathetic elegy in his ears.

“The only thing is, not to think about it,” said he.  “It’s only an instrument, after all.”

“It’s the second one I’ve seen killed like a living creature,” replied Emilia.

They walked on silently, till Wilfrid remarked, that he wondered where Gambier was.  She gave no heed to the name.  The little quiet footing and the bowed head by his side, moved him to entreat her not to be unhappy.  Her voice had another tone when she answered that she was not unhappy.

“No tears at all?” Wilfrid stooped to get a close view of her face.  “I thought I saw one.  If it’s about the harp, look!—­you shall go into that cottage where the light is, sit there, and wait for me, and I will bring you what remains of it.  I dare say we can have it mended.”

Emilia lifted her eyes.  “I am not crying for the harp.  If you go back I must go with you.”

“That’s out of the question.  You must never be found in that sort of place again.”

“Let us leave the harp,” she murmured.  “You cannot go without me.  Let me sit here for a minute.  Sit with me.”