IV

One day there came a messenger for Paul, and brought him news that

made him wonder: the House of Heritage had fallen, on Mistress

Alison's death, to a distant kinsman of her own and of his. This man,

who was without wife or child, had lived there solitary, and it seemed

that he was now dead; and he had left in his will that if Sir Paul

should wish to redeem the house and land for a price, he should have

the first choice to do so, seeing his boyhood had been spent there.

Now Paul was rich, for he had received many great gifts and had spent

little; and there came into his heart a great and loving desire to

possess the old house. He told the Lady Beckwith and Margaret of this,

and they both advised him to go and see it. So Paul asked leave of the

Duke, and told him his business. Then the Duke said very graciously

that Paul had served him well, and that he would buy the house at his

own charges, and give it to Paul as a gift; but he added that this was

a gift for past service, and that he would in no way bind Paul; but he

hoped that Paul would still abide in the castle, at least for a part

of the year, and make music for them. "For indeed," said the Duke very

royally, "it were not meet that so divine a power should be buried in

a rustic grange, but it should abide where it can give delight.

Indeed, Sir Paul, it is not only delight! but through your music there

flows a certain holy and ennobling grace into the hearts of all who

attentively hear you, and tames our wild and brutish natures into

something worthier and more seemly." Then Paul thanked the Duke very

tenderly, and said that he would not leave him.

So Paul journeyed alone with an old man-at-arms, whom the Duke sent

with him for his honour and security; and when he arrived at the

place, he lodged at the inn. He found the House of Heritage very

desolate, inhabited only by the ancient maid of Mistress Alison, now

grown old and infirm. So Paul purchased the house and land at the

Duke's charges, and caused it to be repaired, within and without, and

hired a gardener to dress and keep the ground. He was very impatient

to be gone, but the matter could not be speedily settled; and though

he desired to return to Wresting, and to see Margaret, of whom he

thought night and day, yet he found a great spring of tenderness rise

up in his heart at the sight of the old rooms, in which little had

been changed. The thought of his lonely and innocent boyhood came back

to him, and he visited all his ancient haunts, the fields, the wood,

and the down. He thought much, too, of Mistress Alison and her wise

and gracious ways; indeed, sitting alone, as he often did in the old

room at evening, it seemed to him almost as though she sate and

watched him, and was pleased to know that he was famous, and happy in

his love; so that it appeared to him as though she gave him a

benediction from some far-off and holy place, where she abode and was

well satisfied.

Then at last he was able to return; but he had been nearly six weeks

away. He had moved into the house and lived there; and it had filled

him with a kind of solemn happiness to picture how he would some day,

when he was free, live there with Margaret for his wife; and perhaps

there would be children too, making the house sweet with their

laughter and innocent games--children who should look at him with eyes

like their mother's. Long hours would pass thus while he sate holding

a book or his lute between his hands, the time streaming past in a

happy tide of thoughts.

But the last night was sad, for he had gone early to his bed, as he

was to start betimes in the morning; and he dreamed that he had gone

through the wood to the Isle of Thorns, and had seen the house stand

empty and shuttered close, with no signs of life about it. In his

dream he went and beat upon the door, and heard his knocks echo in the

hall; and just as he was about to beat again, it was opened to him by

an old small woman, that looked thin and sad, with grey hair and many

wrinkles, whom he did not know. He had thrust past her, though she

seemed to have wished to stay him; and pushing on, had found Margaret

sitting in the hall, who had looked up at him, and then covered her

face with her hands, and he had seen a look of anguish upon her face.

Then the dream had slipped from him, and he dreamed again that he was

in a lonely place, a bleak mountain-top, with a wide plain spread out

beneath; and he had watched the flight of two white birds, which

seemed to rise from the rocks near him, and fly swiftly away, beating

their wings in the waste of air.

He woke troubled, and found the dawn peeping through the chinks of

the shutter; and soon he heard the tramping of horses without, and

knew that he must rise and go. And the thought of the dream dwelt

heavily with him; but presently, riding in the cool air, it seemed to

him that his fears were foolish; and his love came back to him, so

that he said the name Margaret over many times to himself, like a

charm, and sent his thoughts forward, imagining how Margaret, newly

risen, would be moving about the quiet house, perhaps expecting him.

And then he sang a little to himself, and was pleased to see the old

man-at-arms smile wearily as he rode beside him.

Three days after he rode into the Castle of Wresting at sundown, and

was greeted very lovingly; the Duke would not let him sing that night,

though Paul said he was willing; but after dinner he asked him many

questions of how he had fared. And Paul hoped that he might have heard

some talk of the Lady Margaret. But none spoke of her, and he dared

not ask. One thing that he noticed was that at dinner the young Sir

Richard de Benoit sate opposite him, looking very pale; and Paul, more

than once, looking up suddenly, saw that the Knight was regarding him

very fixedly, as though he were questioning of somewhat; and that each

time Sir Richard dropped his eyes as though he were ashamed. After

dinner was over, and Paul had been discharged by the Duke, he had gone

back into the hall to see if he could have speech of Sir Richard, and

ask if anything ailed him; but he found him not.

Then on the morrow, as soon as he might, he made haste to go down to

the Isle of Thorns. As he was crossing a glade, not far from the

house, he saw to his surprise, far down the glade, a figure riding on

a horse, who seemed for a moment to be Sir Richard himself. He stood

awhile to consider, and then, going down the glade, he cried out to

him. Sir Richard, who was on a white horse, drew rein, and turned with

his hand upon the loins of the horse; and then he turned again, and,

urging the horse forward, disappeared within the wood. There came, as

it were, a chill into Paul's heart that he should be thus unkindly

used; and he vexed his brain to think in what he could have offended

the Knight; but he quickly returned to his thoughts of love; so he

made haste, and soon came down to the place.

Now, when he came near, he thought for a moment of his dream; and

shrank back from stepping out of the trees at the corner whence he

could see the house; but chiding himself for his vain terrors, he went

swiftly out, and saw the house stand as before, with the trees all

delicate green behind it, and the smoke ascending quietly from the

chimneys.

Then he made haste; and--for he was now used to enter unbidden--went

straight into the house; the hall and the parlours were all empty; so

that he called upon the servants; an old serving-maid came forth, and

then Paul knew in a moment that all was not well. He looked at her for

a moment, and a question seemed to be choked in his throat; and then

he said swiftly, "Is the Lady Beckwith within?" The old serving-maid

said gravely, "She is with the Lady Helen, who is very sick." Then Sir

Paul bade her tell the Lady Beckwith that he was in the house; and as

he stood waiting, there came a kind of shame into his heart, that what

he had heard was so much less than what he had for an instant feared;

and while he strove to be more truly sorry, the Lady Beckwith stood

before him, very pale. She began to speak at once, and in a low and

hurried voice told him of Helen's illness, and how that there was

little to hope; and then she put her hand on Paul's arm, and said, "My

son, why did you leave us?" adding hastily, "Nay, it could not have

been otherwise." And Paul, looking upon her face, divined in some

sudden way that she had not told him all that was in her mind. So he

said, "Dear mother, you know the cause of that--but tell me all, for I

see there is more behind." Then the Lady Beckwith put her face in her

hands, and saying, "Yes, dear Paul, there is more," fell to weeping

secretly. While they thus stood together--and Paul was aware of a

deadly fear that clutched at his heart and made all his limbs

weak--the Lady Margaret came suddenly into the room, looking so pale

and worn that Paul for a moment did not recognise her. But he put out

his arms, and took a step towards her; then he saw that she had not

known he was in the house; for she turned first red and then very

pale, and stepped backwards; and it went to Paul's heart like the

stabbing of a sharp knife, that she looked at him with a look in which

there was shame mingled with a certain fear.

Now while Paul stood amazed and almost stupefied with what he saw,

the Lady Beckwith said quickly and almost sternly to Margaret, "Go

back to Helen--she may not be left alone." Margaret slipped from the

room; and the Lady Beckwith pointed swiftly to a chair, and herself

sate down. Then she said, "Dear Paul, I have dreaded this moment and

the sight of you for some days--and though I should wish to take

thought of what I am to say to you, and to say it carefully, it makes

an ill matter worse to dally with it--so I will even tell you at once.

You must know that some three days after you left us, the young Knight

Sir Richard de Benoit fell from his horse, when riding in the wood

hard by this house, and was grievously hurt by the fall. They carried

him in here and we tended him. I had much upon my hands, for dear

Helen was in great suffering; and so it fell out that Margaret was

often with the Knight--who, indeed, is a noble and generous youth,

very pure and innocent of heart--and oh, Paul, though it pierces my

heart to say it, he loves her--and I think that she loves him too. It

is a strange and terrible thing, this love! it is like the sword that

the Lord Christ said that He came to bring on earth, for it divides

loving households that were else at one together; and now I must say

more--the maiden knew not before what love was; she had read of it in

the old books; and when you came into this quiet house, bringing with

you all the magic of song, and the might of a gentle and noble spirit,

and offered her love, she took it gladly and sweetly, not knowing what

it was that you gave; but I have watched my child from her youth up,

and the love that she gave you was the love that she would have given

to a brother--she admired you and reverenced you. She knew that

maidens were asked and given in marriage, and she took your love, as a

child might take a rich jewel, and love the giver of it. And, indeed,

she would have wedded you, and might have learned to love you in the

other way. But God willed it otherwise; and seeing the young Knight,

it was as though a door was opened in her spirit, and she came out

into another place. I am sure that no word of love has passed between

them; but it has leaped from heart to heart like a swift fire; and all

this I saw too late; but seeing it, I told Sir Richard how matters

stood; and he is an honourable youth; for from that moment he sought

how he might be taken hence, and made reasons to see no more of the

maid. But his misery I could see; and she is no less miserable; for

she has a very pure and simple spirit, and has fought a hard conflict

with herself; yet will she hold to her word.

"And now, dear Paul, judge between us, for the matter lies in your

hands. She is yours, if you claim her; but her heart cannot be yours

awhile, though you may win it yet. It is true that both knights and

maidens have wedded, loving another; yet they have learned to love

each other, and have lived comfortably and happily; but whether,

knowing what I have been forced to tell you, you can be content that

things should be as before, I know not."

Then the Lady Beckwith made a pause, and beat her hands together,

watching Paul's face; Paul sate very still and pale, all the light

gone out of his eyes, with his lips pressed close together. And at the

sight of him the tears came into Lady Beckwith's eyes, and she could

not stay them. And Paul, looking darkly on her, strove to pity her,

but could not; and clasping the arms of his chair, said hoarsely, "I

cannot let her go." So they sate awhile in silence; and then Paul rose

and said, "Dear lady, you have done well to tell me this--I know deep

down in my heart what a brave and noble thing you have done: but I

cannot yet believe it--I will see the Lady Margaret and question her

of the matter." Then the lady said, "Nay, dear Paul, you will not--you

think that you would do so; but you could not speak with her face to

face of such a matter, and she could not answer you. You must think of

it alone, and to-morrow you must tell me what you decide; and

whichever way you decide it, I will help you as far as I can." And

then she said, "You will pity me a little, dear Paul, for I had rather

have had a hand cut off than have spoken with you thus." And these

simple words brought Paul a little to himself, and he rose from his

place and kissed the Lady Beckwith's hand, and said, "Dear mother, you

have done well; but my sorrow is greater than I can bear." And at that

the Lady Beckwith wept afresh; but Paul went out in a stony silence,

hardly knowing what he did.

Then it seemed to Paul as though he went down into deep waters indeed,

which passed cold and silent, in horror and bitterness, over his soul.

He did not contend or cry out; but he knew that the light had fallen

out of his life, and had left him dark and dead.

So he went slowly back to the castle through the wood, hating his

life and all that he was; once or twice he felt a kind of passion rise

within him, and he said to himself, "She is pledged to me, and she

shall be mine." And then there smote upon him the thought that in

thinking thus he was rather brute than man. And he fell at last into

an agony of prayer that God would lead him to the light, and show him

what he should do. When he reached the castle he put a strong

constraint upon himself; he went down to the hall; he even sang; but

it was like a dream; he seemed to be out of the body, and as it were

to see himself standing, and to hear the words falling from his own

lips. The Duke courteously praised him, and said that he was well

content to hear his minstrel again.

As he left the hall, he passed through a little ante-room, that was

hung with arras, on the way to his chamber; and there he saw sitting

on a bench, close to the door that led to the turret stair, the young

Knight, Sir Richard; and there rose in his heart a passion of anger,

so strong that he felt as though a hand were laid upon his heart,

crushing it. And he stood still, and looked upon the Knight, who

raised so pale and haggard a face upon him, that Paul, in spite of his

own misery, saw before him a soul as much or more vexed than his own;

and then the anger died out of his heart, and left in him only the

sense of the bitter fellowship of suffering; the Knight rose to his

feet, and they stood for a moment looking at each other; and then the

Knight said, pale to the lips, "Sir Paul, we are glad to welcome you

back--I have heard of the Duke's gift, and rejoice that your

inheritance should thus return to you." And Paul bowed and said, "Ay,

it is a great gift; but it seems that in finding it I have lost a

greater." And then, seeing the Knight grow paler still, if that were

possible, he said, "Sir Richard, let me tell you a parable; there was

a little bird of the wood that came to my window, and made me glad--so

that I thought of no other thing but my wild bird, that trusted me:

and while I was absent, one hath whispered it away, and it will not

return." And Sir Richard said, "Nay, Sir Paul, you are in this unjust.

What if the wild bird hath seen its mate? And, for you know not the

other side of the parable, its mate hath hid itself in the wood, and

the wild bird will return to you, if you bid it come."

Then Sir Paul, knowing that the Knight had done worthily and like a

true knight, said, "Sir Richard, I am unjust; but you will pardon me,

for my heart is very sore." And so Paul passed on to his chamber; and

that night was a very bitter one, for he went down into the sad valley

into which men must needs descend, and he saw no light there. And once

in the night he rose dry-eyed and fevered from his bed, and twitching

the curtain aside, saw the forest lie sleeping in the cold light of

the moon; and his thought went out to the Isle of Thorns, and he saw

the four hearts that were made desolate; and he questioned in his

heart why God had made the hard and grievous thing that men call love.

Then he went back and fell into a sort of weary sleep; and waking

therefrom, he felt a strange and terrible blackness seize upon his

spirit, so that he could hear his own heart beat furious and thick in

the darkness; and he prayed that God would release him from the prison

of the world. But while he lay, he heard the feet of a horse clatter

on the pavement, it being now near the dawn; and presently there came

a page fumbling to the door, who bore a letter from the Lady Beckwith,

and it ran:--

_"I would not write to you thus, dear Paul, unless my need

were urgent; but the dear Helen is near her end, and has

prayed me many times that, if it were possible, you should

come and sing to her--for she fears to go into the dark, and

says that your voice can give her strength and hope. Now if

it be possible, come; but if you say nay to my messenger, I

shall well understand it. But the dear one hath done you no

hurt, and for the love of the God who made us, come and

comfort us--from her who loves you as a son, these."_

Then Paul when he had read, pondered for awhile; and then he said to

the page, "Say that I will come." So he arrayed himself with haste,

and went swiftly through the silent wood, looking neither to left or

to right, but only to the path at his feet. And presently he came to

the Isle of Thorns; it lay in a sort of low silver mist, the house

pushing through it, as a rock out of the sea. And then a sudden chill

came over Paul, and the very marrow of his bones shuddered; for he

knew in his heart that this was nothing but the presaging of death;

and he thought that the dreadful angel stood waiting at the door, and

that presently the spirit of one that lay within must arise, leaving

the poor body behind, and go with the angel.

In the high chamber where Helen lay burnt a light behind a curtain;

and Paul saw a form pass slowly to and fro. And he would fain have

pitied the two who must lose her whom they loved; but there passed

over his spirit a sort of bitter wind; and he could feel no pity for

any soul but his own, and his heart was dry as dust; he felt in his

mind nothing but a kind of dumb wonder as to why he had troubled

himself to come.

There must have been, he saw, a servant bidden to await his coming,

because, as his feet sounded on the flags, the door was opened to him;

and in a moment he was within the hall. At the well-known sights and

scents of the place, the scene of his greatest happiness, the old

aching came back into his stony heart, and grief, that was like a

sharp sword, thrust through him. Suddenly, as he stood, a door opened,

and Margaret came into the hall; she saw him in a moment; and he

divined that she had not known he was within, but had meant only to

pass through; for she stopped short as though irresolute, and looked

at him with a wild and imploring gaze, like a forest thing caught in a

trap.

In a moment there flowed into Paul's heart a great pity and

tenderness, and a strength so wonderful that he knew it was not his

own, but the immortal strength of God. And he stepped forward,

forgetting all his own pain and misery, and said, "Margaret, dear one,

dear sister, what is the shadow that hath fallen between us at this

time? I would not," he went on, "speak of ourselves at such an hour as

this; but I see that there is somewhat--we minstrels have a power to

look in the heart of those we love--and I think it is this--that you

can love me, dear one, as a brother, and not as a lover. Well, I am

content, and so it shall be. I love you too well, little one, to

desire any love but what you can give me--so brother and sister we

will be." Then he saw a light come into her face, and she murmured

words of sorrow that he could not hear; but he put his arm about her

as a brother might, and kissed her cheek. And then she put her hands

upon his shoulder, and her face upon them, and broke out into a

passion of weeping. And Paul, saying "Even so," kissed and comforted

her, as one might comfort a child, till she looked up, as if to

inquire somewhat of him. And he said smiling, "So this is my dear

sister indeed--yes, I will be content with that--and now take me to

the dear Helen, that I may see if my art can comfort her." Then it was

very sweet to Paul's sore heart that she drew her arm within his own

and led him up from the room. Then there came in haste the Lady

Beckwith down to meet them, with a look of pain upon her face; and

Paul said, still smiling, "We are brother and sister henceforth." Then

the Lady Beckwith smiled too out of her grief and said, "Oh, it is

well."

Then they passed together through the oratory and entered the chamber

of death. And then Paul saw a heavenly sight. The room was a large

one, dim and dark. In a chair near the fire, all in white, sate a

maiden like a lily--so frail and delicate that she seemed like a pure

spirit, not a thing of earth. She sate with a hand upraised between

her and the fire; and when Paul came in, she looked at him with a

smile in which appeared nothing but a noble patience, as though she

had waited long; but she did not speak. Then they drew a chair for

Paul, and he took his lute, and sang soft and low, a song of one who

sinks into sweet dreams, when the sounds of day are hushed--and

presently he made an end. Then she made a sign that Paul should

approach, and he went to her, and kneeled beside her, and kissed her

hand. And Margaret came out of the dark, and put her hand on Paul's

shoulder saying, "This is our brother." And Helen smiled in Paul's

face--and something, a kind of heavenly peace and love, seemed to pass

from her eyes and settle in Paul's heart; and it was told him in that

hour, he knew not how, that this was his bride whom he had loved, and

that he had loved Margaret for her sake; and that moment seemed to

Paul to be worth all his life that had gone before, and all that

should go after. So he knelt in the silence; and then in a moment, he

knew not where or whence, the whole air seemed full of a heavenly

music about them, such music as he had never dreamed of, the very soul

and essence of the music of earth. But Helen laid her head back, and,

smiling still, she died. And Paul laid her hand down.

Then without a word he rose, and went from the chamber; and he

stepped out into the garden, and paced there wondering; he saw the

trees stand silent in their sleep, and the flowers like stars in their

dewy beds. And he knew that God was very near him; he put all his

burdens and sorrows, his art, and all himself within the mighty hands;

and he knew that he could never doubt again of the eternal goodness

and the faithful tender love of the Father. And all the while the dawn

slowly brightened over the wood, and came up very slowly and

graciously out of the east. Then Paul gave word that he must return to

the castle, but would come back soon. And as he mounted the steps, he

saw that there was a man pacing on the terrace above, and knew that it

was the Knight Richard, whom he sought. So he went up on the terrace,

and there he saw the young Knight looking out over the forest; Paul

went softly up to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder, and the

Knight turned upon him a haggard and restless eye. Then Paul said,

"Sir Richard, I come from the Isle of Thorns--but I have more to say

to you. You are a noble Knight and have done very worthily--and I

yield to you with all my heart the dear Margaret, for we are brother

and sister, and nought else, now and henceforth." Then Sir Richard, as

though he hardly heard him aright, stood looking upon his face; and

Paul took his hand very gently in both his own, and said, "Yes, it is

even so--and we will be brothers too." Then he went within the

castle--and lying down in his chamber he slept peacefully like a

little child.

V

Many years have passed since that day. First Sir Richard wedded the

Lady Margaret, and dwelt at the Isle of Thorns. A boy was born to

them, whom they named Paul, and a daughter whom they called Helen. And

Paul was much with them, and had great content. He made, men said,

sweeter music than ever he had done, in those days. Then the Duke

died; and Paul, though his skill failed not, and though the King

himself would have had him to his Court, went back to the House of

Heritage, and there dwelt alone, a grave and kindly man, very simple

of speech, and loving to walk and sit alone. And Sir Richard and the

Lady Margaret bought an estate hard by and dwelt there.

Now Paul would make no more music, save that he sometimes played a

little on the lute for the pleasure of the Lady Margaret; but he took

into his house a boy whom he taught the art; and when he was trained

and gone into the world, to make music of his own, Paul took

another--so that as the years went on, he had sent out a number of his

disciples to be minstrels; so his art was not lost; and one of these,

who was a very gracious child named Percival, he loved better than the

rest, because he saw in him that he had a love for the art more than

for all the rewards of art. And once when they sate together, the boy

Percival said, "Dear sir, may I ask you a question?" "A dozen, if it

be your will," said Paul, smiling; "but, dear child, I know not if I

can answer it." Then the boy said, "Why do you not make more music,

dear sir? for it seems to me like a well that holds its waters close

and deep, and will not give them forth." Then Paul said, smiling,

"Nay, I have given men music of the best. But there are two reasons

why I make no more; and I will tell you them, if you can understand

them. The first is that many years ago I heard a music that shamed me;

and that sealed the well." Then the boy said, musing, "Tell me the

name of the musician, dear Sir Paul, for I have heard that you were

ever the first." Then Paul said, "Nay, I know not the name of the

maker of it." Then the boy said, smiling, "Then, dear sir, it must

have been the music of the angels." And Paul said, "Ay, it was that."

Then the boy was silent, and sate in awe, while Paul mused, touching

his lute softly. Then he roused himself and said, "And the second

reason, dear child, is this. There comes a time to all that

_make_--whether it be books or music or pictures--when they can make

no new thing, but go on in the old manner, working with the fingers of

age the dreams of youth. And to me this seems as it were a profane and

unholy thing, that a man should use so divine an art thus unworthily;

it is as though a host should set stale wine before his guests, and

put into it some drug which should deceive their taste; and I think

that those who do this do it for two reasons: either they hanker for

the praise thereof, and cannot do without the honour--and that is

unworthy--or they do it because they have formed the habit of it, and

have nought to fill their vacant hours--and that is unworthy too. So

hearing the divine music of which I spoke but now, I knew that I could

attain no further; and that there was a sweet plenty of music in the

hand of God, and that He would give it as men needed it; but that my

own work was done. For each man must decide for himself when to make

an end. And further, dear child, mark this! The peril for us and for

all that follow art is to grow so much absorbed in our handiwork, so

vain of it, that we think there is nought else in the world. Into that

error I fell, and therein abode. But we are in this world like little

children at school. God has many fair things to teach us, but we grow

to love our play, and to think of nought else, so that the holy

lessons fall on unheeding ears; but now I have put aside my play, and

sit awhile listening to the voice of God, and to all that He may teach

me; and the lesson is hard to spell; but I wait upon Him humbly and

quietly, till He call me hence. And now we have talked enough, and we

will go back to our music; and you shall play me that passage over,

for you played it not deftly enough before."

Now it happened that a few days later Paul in his sleep dreamed a

dream; and when he woke, he could scarce contain his joy; and the boy

Percival, seeing him in the morning, marvelled at the radiance that

appeared in his face; and a little later Paul bade him go across the

fields to the Lady Margaret's house, and to bid her come to him, if

she would, for he had something that he must tell her, and he might

not go abroad. So Percival told the Lady Margaret; and she wondered at

the message, and asked if Sir Paul was sick. And the boy said, "No, I

never saw him so full of joy--so that I am afraid."

Then the Lady Margaret went to the House of Heritage; and Paul came

to greet her at the door, and brought her in, and sate for awhile in

silence, looking on her face. The Lady Margaret was now a very comely

and sedate lady, and had held her son's child in her arms; and Paul

was a grey-haired man; yet in his eyes she was still the maiden he had

known. Then Paul, speaking very softly, said, "Dear Margaret, I have

bidden you come hither, for I think I am called hence; and when I

depart, and I know not when it may be, I would close my eyes in the

dear house where I was nurtured." Then she looked at him with a sudden

fear, but he went on, "Dear one, I have dreamed very oft of late of

Helen--she stands smiling in a glory, and looks upon me. But this last

night I saw more. I know not if I slept or waked, but I heard a high

and heavenly music; and then I saw Helen stand, but she stood not

alone; she held by the hand a child, who smiled upon me; and the child

was like herself; but I presently discerned that the child had a look

of myself as well; and she loosed the child's hand from her own, and

the child ran to me and kissed me; and Helen seemed to beckon me; and

then I passed into sleep again. But now I see the truth. The love that

I bear her hath begotten, I think, a child of the spirit that hath

never known a mortal birth; and the twain wait for me." And Margaret,

knowing not what to say, but feeling that he had seen somewhat high

and heavenly, sate in silence; and presently Paul, breaking out of a

muse, began to talk of the sweet days of their youth, and of the

tender mercies of God. But while he spoke, he suddenly broke off, and

held up his hand; and there came a waft of music upon the air. And

Paul smiled like a tired child, and lay back in his chair; and as he

did so a string of the lute that lay beside him broke with a sweet

sharp sound. And the Lady Margaret fell upon her knees beside him, and

took his hand; and then she seemed to see a cloudy gate, and two that

stood together--a fair woman and a child; and up to the gate, out of a

cloud, came swiftly a man, like one that reaches his home at last; and

the three went in at the gate together, hand in hand;--and then the

music came once again, and died upon the air.