[Illustration: "But the Diva was far away. She heard nothing save the thing unheard by others."] As a dying zephyr mingles with the fragrance of the flowers, so with the harmony of the music came, from over seas, a lover's message. Her name--Francesca--interwoven with the melody, came gently to her senses. She knew from whom. And she alone knew what memories it revived, crowding upon her through the music; precious memories of the only passion of her life; of the one being to whom she had given her heart, her self, her very soul--and for all time. Now, once again, they were meeting. It came, the message, not in words--merely the breath of a dying lover. It brought this truth, that all joy of living had ended at their parting--nearly thirty years ago. Not a moment in those years had his devotion wavered, a devotion greater and more real than all else in life, beyond and far above the reach of death. Now, on the borders of that other world where loyal hearts shall know no parting--there she would find him waiting. Again her name--Francesca--fading away into the melody of the aria. The Diva lowered her face, pressed a hand against her temples and swayed as if to fall. But her recovery was sudden. She smiled toward the sea of anxious faces and nodded to the conductor, who started his orchestra afresh. Then she sang the aria as never before. [Illustration] XIV OVER SEAS There was music in Cyrus. As a boy, however, he could never get it out. With no voice for singing his main relief was in whistling and humming and in drumming with his fingers. Which, of course, made him more or less of a nuisance at times. When he grew up his voice improved. Not enough to outshine the nightingales, but it served for domestic purposes. At church, for instance, he joined the congregation in the hymns. His voice, in speaking, was low, with a pleasant quality, and was more than satisfactory for ordinary human intercourse. But as a musical instrument it aroused no enthusiasm. His father had said, on one occasion: "The louder you sing, Cyrus, the less noise you make." But music had always moved him, and in a singular way; much as many others are affected, perhaps, but more profoundly. It touched strange chords, deep within him. It inspired him, and seemed to bring a keener edge to his capacity for pain or pleasure; lifting him, at times, far away from himself, to a world where other people are not too real; where beauty and virtue, power, glory and justice are at one's own command. Music brought these things to Cyrus--also other things for which a young man's soul is thirsting.