Harold went on. " It is not like most fishing-places,
where you can't get fish. Dinner
ready? Very well. Gower, give my wife
your arm; I must follow disconsolately for
once."

Mr. Gower's narrative, the voice iii which
it was told, and the gestures accompanying it,
had excited me painfully. The hand laid on
his arm still trembled, but I stilled it by a
great effort, yet not soon enough. He glanced
at me significantly and said, "I think you
did know, Mrs. Warden."

"We must have some music after you have
given us a cup of coffee, Annie," Harold said,
when he and Mr. Gower returned to the
drawing-room after dinner.

I did not answer. I had secretly determined
I would not play. I had not touched
my piano since that dreadful evening. The
thought of perhaps having to do so to-night
had already given me a nervous headache,
of which I thought I would, if need were,
avail myself, as an excuse.

Mr. Gower was wandering about the draw-
ing-room abstractedly, opening and turning
over my books.

"Oh! you have this true Poet's book," he
suddenly exclaimed. He came up to me, book
in hand. " Is it not splendid? I am sure
you like it, though I know very few ladies
who do. I know the writer. I can introduce
him to you, if you have any care to see
the external features of the poet. Have
you ? "

"I think not," I answered.

"Ah! Right, right! It is a very vulgar
curiosity that, concerning lions; and often its
gratification — which proves no gratification—
shivers a thousand beautiful imaginings to
atoms. Does it not?"

"I don't know. I have had no experience."

"But you do know and have read this book.
Ah! here's a leaf of fern put in at one of
the most beautiful passages. That is your
mark?"

"Is it the book you read to me on that
luckless morning? " asked Harold, laughingly.

I blushed deeply as I said " Yes." I do
not know exactly why. Mr. Gower looked
inquisitive. "Little as you care for poetry,
I am sure you admired this so read, Warden;
did you not?"

"So much, that, soothed by the soft sweet
voice of the reader, I went to sleep," laughed
Harold.

"To sleep! " Mr. Gower gave an expressive
shrug. " I have set one or two of these
songs to music," he continued to me, " after
rather a bungling fashion, I am afraid, but I
think my melodies suit their meaning."

"Don't praise yourself, Gower, but let us
hear and judge."

" Read the words, then, first," Mr. Gower
said, putting the book into my husband's
hand.

"Yes, that is pretty enough," Harold said,
returning it, suppressing a slight yawn.
"Could it not have been said more
straightforwardly and comprehensibly in plain prose,
though ? Don't transfix me with your indignant
glances, but let us hear your music."

Harold stretched his great length on the
sofa, composing himself to listen. The coffee
apparatus was cleared away, and the lamp
brought; and I sat down with my idle work
to listen too.

Mr. Gower amused himself at the piano
some time — coquetting with his memory.
Then he began.

He had a fine voice, powerful, and under
great control. The first song was set to wild
and passionate music. When he filled the
room with the greatest possible power of his
voice, I cowered back into the depths of my
easy-chair, dropping my work, turning my
head away from the musician. I looked at
Harold. "Noise enough!" he muttered rather
drowsily, in answer to my look, and closed
his eyes.

I had just turned to observe Mr. Gower.
I was curious to know if his own music
woke any emotion in him. Yes; his voice
died away trembling; yet he turned abruptly
round to look at me.

He sang song after song, and Harold
went to sleep. Harold had had one or
two very hard days' work lately, and had
kept late hours. "No wonder he is tired,
poor fellow! " I said to myself; and I tried
to subdue the great troublous heart-swellings
that the strong, passionate singing produced
in me. Mr. Gower went on singing or playing.
It was a pleasure to touch such a
magnificent instrument, he said, and since I
would not play — for I had refused—he must.

At last I stole to my husband's side, and
woke him softly. I thought Mr. Gower did
not know he had been asleep; but poor
Harold gave such yawns that he quite
betrayed himself.

"I shall weary you as well as your
husband if I go on longer," Mr. Gower said at
last, rising from the piano, and coming
towards us. " I am afraid I have done so
already, Mr. Warden," he continued, "you
look a-weary, a-weary!"

"It is rather late," I said. " I have a headache.
We have kept bad hours since we
returned from the sea-side. Harold has been
hard-worked, and, of course, I sit up for
him."

"So you must forgive our having been
rather bad company," Harold said. " I have
not learnt to do without sleep, as you seem
to have done."

"Five hours is enough for any man, when
he is once used to it," Mr. Gower said.

"To exist, but not thrive upon," said
Harold, glancing at Mr. Gower's very thin,
worn form and face.

"Other things than want of sleep have
made the ravages you see," Mr. Gower