After a few bars had been sung, Mr. Pericles was seen tapping his forehead perplexedly. The moment it ended, he cried out, in a tone of vexed apology for strange ignorance: "But I know not it? It is Italian-- yes, I swear it is Italian! But--who then? It is superbe! But I know not it!" "It is mine," said the young person. "Your music, miss?" "I mean, I composed it." "Permit me to say, Brava!" The ladies instantly petitioned to have it sung to them again; and whether or not they thought more of it, or less, now that the authorship was known to them, they were louder in their applause, which seemed to make the little person very happy. "You are sure it pleases you?" she exclaimed. They were very sure it pleased them. Somehow the ladies were growing gracious toward her, from having previously felt too humble, it may be. She was girlish in her manner, and not imposing in her figure. She would be a sweet mystery to talk about, they thought: but she had ceased to be quite the same mystery to them. "I would go on singing to you," she said; "I could sing all night long: but my people at the farm will not keep supper for me, when it's late, and I shall have to go hungry to bed, if I wait." "Have you far to go?" ventured Adela. "Only to Wilson's farm; about ten minutes' walk through the wood," she answered unhesitatingly. Arabella wished to know whether she came frequently to this lovely spot. "When it does not rain, every evening," was the reply. "You feel that the place inspires you?" said Cornelia. "I am obliged to come," she explained. "The good old dame at the farm is ill, and she says that music all day is enough for her, and I must come here, or I should get no chance of playing at all at night." "But surely you feel an inspiration in the place, do you not?" Cornelia persisted. She looked at this lady as if she had got a hard word given her to crack, and muttered: "I feel it quite warm here. And I do begin to love the place." The stately Cornelia fell back a step. The moon was now a silver ball on the edge of the circle of grey blue above the ring of firs, and by the light falling on the strange little person, as she stood out of the shadow to muffle up her harp, it could be seen that she was simply clad, and that her bonnet was not of the newest fashion. The sisters remarked a boot-lace hanging loose. The peculiar black lustre of her hair, and thickness of her long black eyebrows, struck them likewise. Her harp being now comfortably mantled, Cornet Wilfrid Pole, who had been watching her and balancing repeatedly on his forward foot, made a stride, and "really could not allow her to carry it herself," and begged her permission that he might assist her. "It's very heavy, you know," he added. "Too heavy for me," she said, favouring him with a thankful smile. "I have some one who does that. Where is Jim?"