"Not exactly, but he was just having his breakfast as I went in, and I stood beside him while he ate it, and he laughed when I tried to help him, and asked whether I shouldn't feed him with a spoon--whether I thought he was a baby again. Then he spoke of you, and asked if I had seen you and how you were." They found the music presently, and Philippa possessed herself of a quantity of it and carried it down-stairs to the morning-room to try it over on the little piano which had belonged to Francis years before. The instrument was rather thin in tone, and some of the notes were out of tune, but Mrs. Goodman promised before she left her, to send for a man from Renwick next morning to put it in order, so that it could be taken up-stairs to the sitting-room. Turning over the songs, which were, of course, quite out of date, and mostly of the highly sentimental order which found favour in the early eighties, Philippa's eye was arrested by some words which seemed to her familiar. They were the ones Francis had quoted at their first meeting. He had spoken of a song Phil had been in the habit of singing, which seemed to him written for them. She tried it through. The tune had a certain happy charm which once heard might easily linger in the memory after the music was hushed. The words were these:-- "My heart met yours, when spring was all awaking, Down in the valley where the violets bloom; Through soft grey clouds the kind May sun was breaking, Setting ablaze the gold flower of the broom. Your heart met mine, and all the birds were singing, Singing for joy that winter's day was done; On every side the harebells pale were ringing A bridal peal for joy--our hearts were one. Our hearts are one, and nothing can dissever The chain that binds us close; come good or ill, The golden radiance floods life's pathway ever, The scent of violets lingers round us still." How many years was it since the simple words had been sung in that house, and the notes of the old piano sounded to the lilting cadence of its melody? And now, of the two who had sung it together, one was gone, and the other--well, for the other some of the golden radiance still shone after all the bitter years fate had meted out; and the scent of the violets lingered still. Philippa dropped her face until it touched the faded bunch upon her breast. What is there about the scent of violets that always conjures up thoughts of the past? They have beyond the scent of all other flowers a power of memory. The scent of roses tells of long summer days, of dreams soft and tender as light summer airs; lilies speak of love and of love's crown; but it is violets that help us to regret. CHAPTER XII PROGRESS "The days are made on a loom whereof the warp and woof are past and future time."--EMERSON.