"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul," had rolled out in his musical bass. He read on for half an hour or so. Mona soon forgot her sketch and sat listening, her head resting on her hand. He closed the book abruptly; he wanted no verbal thanks. "And now," he said, "for my reward. May I look at your sketches?" She coloured awkwardly. How could she show them? The scraps from Norway, and Italy, and Saxon Switzerland, might be explained; but what of the memory sketches of "the potent, grave, and reverend signiors" who had examined her at Burlington House? What of the caricature, which had amused the whole School, of Mademoiselle Lucy undergoing a Viva? What of her _chef-d'œuvre_, the study of the dissecting-room? "I promised Rachel that I would keep the dreadful secret," she said ironically to herself, "and I am not going to break my word." But it cost her an effort to refuse. Some of the sketches were, in their way, undeniably clever, and she would have enjoyed showing them to him; and, moreover, she intensely disliked laying herself open to a charge of false modesty. "I am sorry to seem so churlish," she said, "but I would rather not show you the book." He was surprised, but her tone was absolutely final. There was nothing more to be said. "If you like," she said shyly, "I will pay you back in a poor counterfeit of your own coin. I will read to you, and you shall close your eyes and listen to the plash of the waves. That is one of my ideals of happiness." She took the book from the rock and began to read; but he did not close his eyes. Her voice was not a remarkable one like his own; but it was sympathetic, and her reading suggested much more than it expressed. He enjoyed listening to her, and he was interested in her choice of a poem; but he liked best to watch her mobile, sensitive face. "One effort more, my altar this bleak sand; That Thou, O God, my life hast lighted, With ray of light, steady, ineffable, vouchsafed of Thee, Light rare, untellable, lighting the very light, Beyond all signs, descriptions, languages,"-- She seemed to be repeating the words from memory, not reading them; for her eyes were fixed on the hills beyond the sea, and her face was kindled for the moment into absolute beauty. Then, for the first time, a distinct thought passed through Dudley's mind that he would like the mother of his children to have a face like that. "She would make a man noble in spite of himself," he thought; but aloud he said-- "You knew that poem?" "Yes." "Did you know those I read?" "Not all of them. I knew _Vigil Strange_ and _My Captain_." There was silence between them for a few moments. "Have you the smallest idea," he asked suddenly, "how you are throwing yourself away?" She coloured, and was about to answer, but just then a gust of wind caught a page of her sketch-book, and blew it over. She laughed, glad of an excuse for changing the subject.