“But, Edith,” urged I, “truth far more includes Than most men deem who would deem all things theirs.— Your tastes are not religious?—Mine are not, If by religion you mean piety,— Religion’s brew, froth’d bubbling to be seen. But how is it beneath the surface, friend? Down deep within?—is not the substance there? I never seem’d religious half so much As when at one with you.” She but replied To tell me how “her father’s legacy Had been her sister, whom she must not leave. For her sake, seeking means of livelihood, She first rejected, then accepted what Her spirit, spurning once, had learn’d to love; As had her sister; and for both of them Each hope, and joy, and all they thought of now, Was bounded by the music of the stage. Nor could my logic change this; nay,” she said, “Not logic leads the artist on, but light.” XXXVIII. I heard in vain—I could not give her up. I urged her still, still hoping her to swerve. My slight of music, rousing her defence, But proved my love too weak to rival it. “My father oft,” she said, “would quote your Book; Say ‘music marshall’d all the better life. What else could sway the soul, yet leave love free To think and choose and do?’—What different moods,” She added, while before us play’d the band, “These chords, we hear, arouse in different minds! That maid may smile amid sweet dreams of love; Her dark attendant dream of but her wealth; That matron plan some fresh self-sacrifice; And that spare fellow, twirling near her side The soft mustache that downs his pursing lips, Plan only how to hide their stingy look. And thus all listen, musing different things; And all, with conscious freedom, muse of them; And yet one harmony controls them all, Aroused or calm to match its changing flow. What else but music frees the mind it rules? ‘Good-will to man,’ was first proclaim’d in song.” “Good-will,” I said, “but follows will for good.”