The song is a lovely one, nor did it suffer from her rendering, and the effect it produced upon Harold was of a most peculiar nature. All his past life seemed to heave and break beneath the magic of the music and the magic of the singer, as a northern field of ice breaks up beneath the outburst of the summer sun. It broke, sank, and vanished into the depths of his nature, those dread unmeasured depths that roll and murmur in the vastness of each human heart as the sea rolls beneath its cloak of ice; that roll and murmur here, and set towards a shore of which we have no chart or knowledge. The past was gone, the frozen years had melted, and once more the sweet strong air of youth blew across his heart, and once more there was clear sky above, wherein the angels sailed. Before the breath of that sweet song the barrier of self fell down, his being went out to meet her being, and all the sleeping possibilities of life rose from the buried time. He sat and listened, trembling as he listened, till the gentle echoes of the music died upon the quiet air. They died, and were gathered into the emptiness which receives and records all things, leaving him broken. She turned to him, smiling faintly, for the song had moved her also, and he felt that he must speak. “That is a beautiful song,” he said; “sing it again if you do not mind.” She made no answer, but once more she sang: “O let the solid ground Not fail beneath my feet Before my life has found What some have found so sweet;” and then suddenly broke off. “Why are you looking at me?” she said. “I can feel you looking at me and it makes me nervous.” He bent towards her and looked her in the eyes. “I love you, Ida,” he said, “I love you with all my heart,” and he stopped suddenly. She turned quite pale, even in that light he could see her pallor, and her hands fell heavily on the keys. The echo of the crashing notes rolled round the room and slowly died away—but still she said nothing. CHAPTER XIX. IN PAWN At last she spoke, apparently with a great effort. “It is stifling in here,” she said, “let us go out.” She rose, took up a shawl that lay beside her on a chair, and stepped through the French window into the garden. It was a lovely autumn night, and the air was still as death, with just a touch of frost in it. Ida threw the shawl over her shoulders and followed by Harold walked on through the garden till she came to the edge of the moat, where there was a seat. Here she sat down and fixed her eyes upon the hoary battlements of the gateway, now clad in a solemn robe of moonlight. Harold looked at her and felt that if he had anything to say the time had come for him to say it, and that she had brought him here in order that she might be able to listen undisturbed. So he began again, and told her that he loved her dearly.