It surprised her somewhat afterward, not then--her heart was beating too violently for her to notice any thing much--that her husband asked her no farther question, but immediately turned the conversation to Arthur's tea-party, in the discussion of which both were so eager to amuse the invalid that the other subject dropped--naturally, it appeared; anyhow, effectually. But when the two other children came in to see Arthur, he again recurred to her singing, which had evidently taken a strong hold upon his imagination. "Papa, you must hear her. Mother, sing the song with pretty little twiddle-twiddles in it--far prettier than Aunt Henrietta's things--something about warbling in her breath." "Oh no, not that," said Christian, shrinking involuntarily. What from? Was it from a ghostly vision of the last time she had sung it--that is properly, to a piano-forte accompaniment, played by fingers that had afterward caught hold of _her_ trembling fingers, and been a living comment on the song? It was that exquisite one from Handel's "Acis and Galatea:" _"Love in her eyes sits playing, And sheds delicious death; Love on her lips is straying, And warbling in her breath."_ Probably never was there a melody which more perfectly illustrated that sort of love, the idealization of fancy and feeling, with just a glimmer of real passion quivering through it--the light cast in advance by the yet unrisen day. "Not that song, Arthur. It is rather difficult besides, Papa might not care to hear it." "Papa might if he were tried," said Dr. Grey, smiling, "Why not do to please me what you do to please the children?" So Christian sang at once--ay, and that very song. She faced it. She determined she would, with all the ghosts of the past that hovered round it. And soon she found how, thus faced, as says that other lovely song of Handel's, which she had learned at the same time: _"The wandering shadows, ghostly pale, All troop to their infernal jail: Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave."_ Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the past. She had begun her song feebly and uncertainly; but when she really heard the sound of her own voice echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of melody that the old walls had not known for centuries, there came upon her an intoxication of enjoyment. It was that pure enjoyment which all true artists--be they singers, painters, poets--understand, and they only--the delight in mere creation, quite distinct from any sympathy or admiration of others; and oh how far removed from any mean vanity or love of praise. Christian was happy--happy as a lark in the air, just to hear--and make--the sound of her own singing. Her face brightened; her figure, as she stood leaning against the mantel-piece assumed a new grace and dignity. She was beautiful--absolutely beautiful and her husband saw it.