Always, however, those dreams of bliss were poisoned by that haunting fear of what the counteracting influence of the child’s mother might be. It made him shiver with terror, when he thought of that bird of music which lived in Rose-Jewel’s breast, with its wings cut, and its song stifled by the cold chill of disapproval, and even a more active form of objection. He imagined the harshness and contempt which would fall upon that angelic child, if it should be discovered that she had inherited her father’s misfortune, and had been encouraged in its development by him. He thought of how broken and purposeless his life had been made by the cold and uncomprehending judgment of those about him, and he felt weak with cowardice at the thought of Rose-Jewel having the same ordeal before her. He was ashamed to feel himself powerless to help her in it. He knew that nothing short of stealing the child and keeping her hid would suffice, and that he could not do. All the world would consider him a monster, and he would feel like one. Besides this, his poverty would hinder. How could he take his little song-bird out to be a pauper with him? How could he even expect to keep such a voice as he foresaw in her, a secret? No,--God help the poor baby!--she must stay and bear the blow when it should come, and he, for his part, must do what he could to help her--feeble as his help would be! He felt the danger coming nearer every day, for Rose-Jewel was now able to sing little songs with words and music, and the more he felt the keen delight her delicious little voice gave him, the more he trembled at the thought of discovery. It was wonderful how the child seemed to feel the necessity of secrecy, and how, baby as she was, she never gave any evidence of her musical gifts, except when with her father. Her childlike recollection of his warnings surprised him. One day the two were down in the old dairy together. Eastin, with his violin was playing the air of “Comin’ through the Rye,” and Rose-Jewel was following him, with her lisping utterance, and clear, delicious voice, as she stood before him, her eyes answering the look of his, as definitely and truly as her voice answered his instrument. When he played the music to her baby pronunciation of the words: “Every lathie hath her laddie, None they thay have I--” and her thrilling little voice rose to the last high note, and took it with ease and held it, the man’s hand shook so that the bow dropped from it. For a few seconds, the only sound was that almost inhuman little treble voice, fine and thin as a hair, but so thrillingly sweet that it sent a long tremor all through Eastin’s limbs. Hurriedly putting down his violin, he held out his arms. The child flew into them, and as he swooped her from the ground to his heart, she finished, without accompaniment, the lines: “Yet all the ladth they thmile at me, When comin’ thro’ the Rye.”