That sort of thing couldn’t possibly make anybody love anybody, you know. It’s rather queer,” she continued meditatively, “but one goes out at night all alone, and it’s quiet, and a lot of little stars show you how big the darkness is. You’re thinking just about ordinary things; and without any reason there comes into your head a bit of one of the Nocturnes--Chopin’s, the eleventh, I think--and straightway you feel as if you’ll die unless you kiss somebody you’re awfully fond of. And, of course, being alone, you can’t. And so you get sorrowful. It’s queer, because there’s nothing about love in all that--the music, and quiet, and darkness--to make one think about it; but one always does--at least I do.” “My dear Erato!” remonstrated Clio. “Well, I do. Euterpe shall sing to us now. I don’t mind a song that can be sung in a drawing-room--it’s the drawing-room song that I hate. But Euterpe knows all about it, and she sings beautifully, and she’s very pretty--and yet she’s shy.” Erato was quite shameless in her favouritism. But she had chosen well. Euterpe was shy and quiet, but she loved singing. She smiled at Erato, and seated herself at a cottage piano in one corner of the cloud-room. I had not noticed before that there was a piano. She refused Clio’s offer to accompany her on the sackbut, and another offer from Terpsichore to accompany her on the banjo. She was quiet, but when it came to music she was firm. The music of her song was beautiful, but owing to the expense of printing music it is cheaper to give the words:-- Down the dusty road together Homeward pass the hurrying sheep, Stupid with the summer weather, Too much grass and too much sleep. I, their shepherd, sing to thee That summer is a joy to me. Down the shore rolled waves all creamy With the flecked surf yesternight; I swam far out in starlight dreamy, In moving waters, cool and bright. I, the shepherd, sing to thee I love the strong life of the sea. And upon the hillside growing, Where the fat sheep dozed in shade, Bright red poppies I found blowing, Drowsy, tall, and loosely made. I, the shepherd, sing to thee How fair the bright red poppies be. To the red-tiled homestead bending Winds the road, so white and long; Day and work are near their ending, Sleep and dreams will end my song. I, the shepherd, sing to thee; In the dream-time answer me. “Dear Euterpe,” said Erato, “you must have been thinking of Sicily. It brings it all back to my mind, how he and I----” Erato paused. “Clio,” she said at last, “I don’t want to tell the next story. Let one of the others tell it. Perhaps I sha’n’t listen very much, but you must forgive me. I want to lie here, and think, and think, with music in my head.” “Perhaps Polymnia has a story to tell us,” suggested Clio. Polymnia wore a long robe of pearly-grey; her face was pale, and her eyes were deep and thoughtful.