She entered--a small, pale creature, below the middle height, with the daintiest figure, and child-like eyes of dark blue, very clear, and--must I say it?--for the occasion “worn” wide. Her hair was brown, on the side of black, divided in the middle, and gathered behind in a great mass. Her dress was something white, with a shimmer of red about it, and a blush-rose in the front. She greeted Walter in the simplest, friendliest way, holding out her tiny hand very frankly. Her features were no smaller than for her size they ought to be, in themselves perfect, \Walter thought, and in harmony with her whole being and carriage. Her manner was a gentle, unassuming assurance--almost as if they knew each other, but had not met for some time. Walter felt some ancient primeval bond between them--dim, but indubitable. The mother withdrew to her writing-table, and began to write, now and then throwing in a word as they talked. Lady Lufa seemed pleased with her new acquaintance; Walter was bewitched. Bewitchment I take to be the approach of the real to our ideal. Perhaps upon that, however, depends even the comforting or the restful. In the heart of every one lies the necessity for homeliest intercourse with the perfectly lovely; we are made for it. Yet so far are we in ourselves from the ideal, which no man can come near until absolutely devoted to its quest, that we continually take that for sufficing which is a little beyond. “I think, Mr. Colman, I have seen something of yours! You do put your name to what you write?” said Lady Lufa. “Not always,” replied Walter. “I think the song must have been yours!” Walter had, just then, for the first time published a thing of his own. That it should have arrested the eye of this lovely creature! He acknowledged that he had printed a trifle in “The Observatory.” “I was _charmed_ with it!” said the girl, the word charmingly drawled. “The merest trifle!” remarked Walter. “It cost me nothing.” He meant what he said, unwilling to be judged by such a slight thing. “That is the beauty of it!” she answered. “Your song left your soul as the thrush’s leaves his throat. Should we prize the thrush’s more if we came upon him practicing it?” Walter laughed. “But we are not meant to sing like the birds!” “That you could write such a song without effort, shows you to possess the bird-gift of spontaneity.” Walter was surprised at her talk, and willing to believe it profound. “The will and the deed in one may be the highest art!” he said. “I hardly know.” “May I write music to it?” asked Lady Lufa, with upward glance, sweet smile, and gently apologetic look. “I am delighted you should think of doing so. It is more than it deserves!” answered Walter. “My only condition is, that you will let me hear it.” “That you have a right to. Besides, I dared not publish it without knowing you liked it.” “Thank you so much! To hear you sing it will let me know at once whether the song itself be genuine.”