“Your words give me much comfort, Florence, for long have I wanted some one who could sympathize with me on that subject.  To most persons, sound alone is considered music; to me, a night like this should not be jarred save by soft vibrations of aeolian strings.  And the same of beautiful scenery.  I cannot bear to hear one burst forth in song, for the landscape is to me, in itself, a Te Deum, a perfect song of praise.”

“I am made happy by your words, Herbert, for there are moments when music seems to me to be so sadly out of place, that I feel almost like crushing the instrument and performer together.  And now may I ask you, why the music of some performers gives me pain instead of pleasure?  I know, but I want your answer.  We will take Miss York, for instance; she is full of hearty, earnest life, robust and strong.  I know she plays in time and tune, and sings correctly, but I feel all out of tune, and completely disharmonized when she performs in my presence.”

“I fully comprehend your feelings.  I have had the same myself, and my interpretation of it is that I cannot accept the music through her organism; or, rather, her atmosphere being between the subject and the auditor, the latter feels only time and sound, not music, not the idea the composer designed to convey.  Is not that it?”

“Exactly.  After all, there are very few who are organized sufficiently delicate to translate music.”

“True, Florence; how many seek the glorious art, not for its uplifting power, but as a means of display.  Let us love it for the good it does for mankind, and use it, not for the end, but as a means, of enjoyment.”

“I play but seldom, Herbert, dearly as I love it.”

“I am not sorry to hear that.  I think that greater good is obtained by not being too much in its immediate sphere.  Of course greater mechanical skill is acquired by constant practice, but I know by my own experience that when the soul has reached a certain height of culture, the physical nature becomes subordinate to the spiritual, and is controlled by it, because the two natures are then replete with harmony, and the fullness of the one finds expression through the other,—­the hand moves in complete obedience to the spirit.  Dearly as I love music, I cannot hear or execute it too often.  On this I am pleased to see we agree.  The air is growing chilly; we will go in and sing one song before we part.  What shall it be?”

“The Evening Song to the Virgin,” she answered.

Seating himself at the instrument, he played the prelude soft and low, then their voices mingled in that graceful, gliding song, as only voices can mingle that are united in the harmony of love.

It filled the whole air with sweetness, and Hugh’s senses revelled in the holy spell, as he sat alone on the piazza, thinking of the past, his lovely Alice, and the beautiful child which was left to bless his years.

No other song followed; none could.  Florence listened to the retreating footsteps of her lover, and then sat in the moonlight to think of her joys.