“When?  Where?  What with?” came the blunt response from England, with electric speed, and Emilia fell from the clouds.

“I meant my singing; I thought of how I sang to you.  Oh, happy time!” she exclaimed, to cut through the mist of vision in her mind.

“To me? down at the booth?” muttered Wilfrid, perplexed.

“Oh, no!  I mean, just now—­” and languid with the burden of so full a heart, she did not attempt to explain herself further, though he said, invitingly, “I thought I heard you humming?”

Then he was seized with a desire to have the force of her spirit upon him, for Brookfield was in view; and with the sight of Brookfield, the natural fascination waxed a shade fainter, and he feared it might be going.  This (he was happily as ignorant as any other youth of the working of his machinery) prompted him to bid her sing before they parted.  Emilia checked her steps at once to do as he desired.  Her throat filled, but the voice quavered down again, like a fainting creature sick unto death.  She made another effort and ended with a sorrowful look at his narrowly-watching eyes.

“I can’t,” she said; and, in fear of his anger, took his hand to beg forgiveness, while her eyelids drooped.

Wilfrid locked her fingers in a strong pressure, and walked on, silent as a man who has faced one of the veiled mysteries of life.  It struck a full human blow on his heart, dragging him out of his sentimental pastures precipitately.  He felt her fainting voice to be the intensest love-cry that could be uttered.  The sound of it coursed through his blood, striking a rare illumination of sparks in his not commonly brilliant brain.  In truth, that little episode showed an image of nature weak with the burden of new love.  I do not charge the young cavalry officer with the power of perceiving images.  He saw no more than that she could not sing because of what was in her heart toward him; but such a physical revelation was a divine love-confession, coming involuntarily from one whose lips had not formed the name of love; and Wilfrid felt it so deeply, that the exquisite flattery was almost lost, in a certain awed sense of his being in the presence of an absolute fact:  a thing real, though it was much talked about, and visible, though it did not wear a hat or a petticoat.

It searched him thoroughly enough to keep him from any further pledges in that direction, propitious as the moment was, while the moon slipped over banks of marble into fields of blue, and all the midnight promised silence.  They passed quickly through the laurel shrubs, and round the lawn.  Lights were in the sleepless ladies’ bed-room windows.

“Do I love her?” thought Wilfrid, as he was about to pull at the bell, and the thought that he should feel pain at being separated from her for half-a-dozen hours, persuaded him that he did.  The self-restraint which withheld him from protesting that he did, confirmed it.