And every minute gained is joy, And love stirs in the heart of a boy. This is the time the sun, of late Content to lie abed till eight, Lifts up betimes his sleepy head, And love stirs in the heart of a maid. --Katherine Tynan Hinkson. It was in the spring of 1640, just when King Charles had dissolved the Short Parliament, after its three weeks’ existence, that Hilary made a discovery. She possessed a voice, a voice which, after a few lessons from the Cathedral organist, proved to be a source of real pleasure to herself and others. This event meant much more to her than the fact that England had again relapsed into the woeful plight of the last eleven years, and was once more without a Parliament. At every spare minute she was practising her guitar, or singing scales and songs, and thus it very naturally fell about that Gabriel, returning from Oxford that summer, was greeted, as he hastened along the south walk to the little gate which made the boundary between the two gardens, by a song “more tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear.” Stealing quietly forward, he could catch the words, which were set to the pathetic air of “Bara Fostus’ Dream”; Come, sweet love, let sorrow cease, Banish frowns, leave off dissension, Love’s wars make the sweetest peace, Hearts uniting by contention. Sunshine follows after rain, Sorrows ceasing, this is pleasing, All proves fair again, After sorrow soon comes joy; Try me, prove me, trust me, love me, This will cure annoy. The voice was a mezzo-soprano, with that strange gift of individual charm, without which far finer voices fail to please. It seemed to witch the very heart of the listener, and Gabriel, determined as he was not to disturb the song, was all on fire to see the singer. As she played the interlude on the guitar at the end of the first verse he stole over the grass, and, climbing up the old filbert tree, swung himself noiselessly on to the wall, and looked down eagerly through the leafy branches. Not far off, at the opposite end of a grassy glade, sat Hilary, her soft brown curls, held back by a snood of pink ribbon, but falling nevertheless about her comely face as she bent over the guitar. She wore a pale grey gown with dainty trimmings of pink, and the delicate colouring of her sweet womanly face made one think of apple-blossom. Gabriel’s heart throbbed fast. Was this the child he had once teased? The companion he had sometimes wished a boy to share his rougher sports? The playmate he had quarrelled with so often, and kissed with careless kindliness when the dispute had ended? How had he ever dared to do it all? Then again the song thrilled him Winter hides his frosty face,