it had caught the voices of the rain and wind,—­and the pattering drops and sibilant hurricane had whizzed sharply through the scale of sound till the very notes seemed alive with the wrath of nature,—­and then it had rolled all the wild clamour away into a sustained magnificence of prayerful chords which seemed to plead for all things grand, all things true, all things beautiful,—­and to list the soul of man in panting, labouring ecstasy up to the very threshold of Heaven!  And she—­the ‘goblin’ who evoked all this phantasmagoria of life set in harmony—­she too changed as it seemed, in nature and aspect,—­her small meagre face was as the face of a pictured angel, with the dark hair clustering round it in thick knots and curling waves as of blackest bronze,—­while the eyes, full of soft passion and fire, glowed beneath the broad temples with the light of youth’s imperial dream of fame.  What human creature could accept the limited fact of being mere man, mere woman only, while Cicely played?  Such music as hers recalled and revealed the earliest splendour of the days when Poesy was newly born,—­when gods and goddesses were believed to walk the world in large and majestic freedom,—­and when brave deeds of chivalry and self-sacrifice became exalted by the very plenitude of rich imagination, into supernatural facts of heaven conquering, hell-charming prowess.  Not then was man made to seem uncouth, or mean and savage in his attempts to dominate the planet, but strong, fearless, and endowed with dignity and power.  Not then was every noble sentiment derided,—­every truth scourged,—­every trust betrayed,-every tenderness mocked,—­and every sweet emotion made the subject of a slander or a sneer.  Not then was love mere lust, marriage mere convenience, and life mere covetousness of gain.  There was something higher, greater, purer than these,—­something of the inspiring breath of God, which, according to the old Biblical narrative, was breathed into humanity with the words—­“Let us make man in Our image, after Our likeness.”  That ‘image’ of God was featured gloriously in the waves of music which surged through Cicely’s brain and fingers, out on the responsive air,—­and when she ceased playing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe, which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation were afraid to break by a word or movement.  And then, with a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had passed her small supple hands lightly again over the piano-keys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure silvery sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De Musset’s ‘Adieu, Suzon!’

    “Adieu, Suzon, ma rose blonde,
     Qui m’as aime pendant huit jours! 
     Les plus courts plaisirs de ce monde
     Souvent font les meilleurs amours.

    Sais-je au moment ou je te quitte
     Ou m’entraine mon astre errant? 
     Je m’en vais pourtant, ma petite,
     Bien loin, bien vite,
     Adieu, Suzon!”