Helen was in the way of now and then writing music to any song that specially took her fancy--not with foolish hankering after publication, but for the pleasure of brooding in melody upon the words, and singing them to her husband. One day he brought her a few stanzas, by an unknown poet, which, he said, seemed to have in them a slightly new element. They pleased her more than him, and began at once to sing themselves. No sooner was her husband out of the room than she sat down to her piano with them. Before the evening, she had written to them an air with a simple accompaniment. When she now sung the verses to him, he told her, to her immense delight, that he understood and liked them far better. The next morning, having carried out one or two little suggestions he had made, she was singing them by herself in the drawing-room, when Faber, to whom she had sent because one of her servants was ill, entered. He made a sign begging her to continue, and she finished the song. "Will you let me see the words," he said. She handed them to him. He read them, laid down the manuscript, and, requesting to be taken to his patient, turned to the door. Perhaps he thought she had laid a music-snare for him. The verses were these: A YEAR SONG. Sighing above, Rustling below, Through the woods The winds go. Beneath, dead crowds; Above, life bare; And the besom winds Sweep the air. _Heart, leave thy woe; Let the dead things go._ Through the brown leaves Gold stars push; A mist of green Veils the bush. Here a twitter, There a croak! They are coming-- The spring-folk! _Heart, be not dumb; Let the live things come._ Through the beach The winds go, With a long speech, Loud and slow. The grass is fine, And soft to lie in; The sun doth shine The blue sky in. _Heart, be alive; Let the new things thrive._ Round again! Here now-- A rimy fruit On a bare bough! There the winter And the snow; And a sighing ever To fall and go! _Heart, thy hour shall be; Thy dead will comfort thee._ Faber was still folded in the atmosphere of the song when, from the curate's door, he arrived at the minister's, resolved to make that morning a certain disclosure--one he would gladly have avoided, but felt bound in honor to make. The minister grew pale as he listened, but held his peace. Not until the point came at which he found himself personally concerned, did he utter a syllable. I will in my own words give the substance of the doctor's communication, stating the facts a little more fairly to him than his pride would allow him to put them in his narrative.