On me the first effect of her voice was a sudden sharp pang that seemed to pierce through one’s very heart. (I had felt such a pang only once before in my life, and it had been from _seeing_ what, at the moment, realised one’s idea of perfect beauty—it was in a London exhibition, where, in making my way through a crowd, I suddenly met, face to face, a child of quite unearthly beauty.) Then came a rush of burning tears to the eyes, as though one could weep one’s soul away for pure delight. And lastly there fell on me a sense of awe that was almost terror—some such feeling as Moses must have had when he heard the words “_Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground_.” The figures of the children became vague and shadowy, like glimmering meteors: while their voices rang together in exquisite harmony as they sang:— “For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!” By this time I could see them clearly once more. Bruno again sang by himself:— “Say, whence is the voice that, when anger is burning, Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills Around us, beneath, and above?” Sylvie sang more courageously, this time: the words seemed to carry her away, out of herself:— “’Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, how it goes: But the name of the secret is Love!” And clear and strong the chorus rang out:— “For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!” Once more we heard Bruno’s delicate little voice alone:— “Say whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, Like a picture so fair to the sight? That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, Till the little lambs leap with delight?” And again uprose that silvery voice, whose angelic sweetness I could hardly bear:— “’Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, Though ’tis sung, by the angels above, In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear— And the name of the secret is Love!” And then Bruno joined in again with “For I think it is Love, For I feel it is Love, For I’m sure it is nothing but Love!” “That _are_ pretty!” the little fellow exclaimed, as the children passed us—so closely that we drew back a little to make room for them, and it seemed we had only to reach out a hand to touch them: but this we did not attempt. “No use to try and stop them!” I said, as they passed away into the shadows. “Why, they could not even _see_ us!” “No use at all,” Lady Muriel echoed with a sigh. “One would _like_ to meet them again, in living form! But I feel, somehow, _that_ can never be. They have passed out of _our_ lives!” She sighed again; and no more was said, till we came out into the main road, at a point near my lodgings.