_But while, half hidden, thus I stayed, There came in one who lightly laid White hands upon the yellow keys To seek their lingering harmonies. I think she sighed--I know she smiled-- And straightway Music was beguiled, And all the faded bygone years, With all their bygone hopes and fears, Their long-forgotten smiles and tears, Their empty dreams that meant so much, Began to sing beneath her touch._ _The notes that time had taught to fret, Racked with a querulous regret, Forsook their burden of complaint, For melodies more sweetly faint Than lovers ever dreamed in sleep-- Than rippling murmurs of the deep-- Than whispered hope of endless peace-- Ah, let her play or let her cease, For still that sound is in the air, And still I see her seated there!_ _Yet, even as her fingers ranged, I knew those jangled notes unchanged, My soul had heard, in ear's despite, And Love had made the music right._ So had Master Adrian written, after a good deal of work with note-book and pencil, during a long summer afternoon, and then had carried his rhymes away to polish them at his leisure. Reynold Harding merely stood listening in the hall, as motionless as if he were the ghost of some tall young Rothwell, called back and held entranced by the sound of the familiar instrument. Barbara knew no more of his silent presence than she did of Adrian's verses. When she paused he stepped lightly away without disturbing her. He was very ignorant of music; he had no idea what it was that she had played; to him it was just Barbara's tune, and he felt that, when he left Mitchelhurst, he should carry it in his heart, to sing softly to him on his way.