“'Twill be time to make up to them when the sun sets and the company disperses then I will take my poor relations to my house, and none will be the wiser.” Half the courses were lost on Gerard and Margaret. They were no great eaters, and just now were feeding on sweet thoughts that have ever been unfavourable to appetite. But there is a delicate kind of sensuality, to whose influence these two were perhaps more sensitive than any other pair in that assembly--the delights of colour, music, and perfume, all of which blended so fascinatingly here. Margaret leaned back and half closed her eyes, and murmured to Gerard: “What a lovely scene! the warm sun, the green shade, the rich dresses, the bright music of the lutes and the cool music of the fountain, and all faces so happy and gay! and then, it is to you we owe it.” Gerard was silent all but his eyes; observing which-- “Now, speak not to me,” said Margaret languidly; “let me listen to the fountain: what are you a competitor for?” He told her. “Very well! You will gain one prize, at least.” “Which? which? have you seen any of my work?” “I? no. But you will gain a prize. “I hope so; but what makes you think so?” “Because you were so good to my father.” Gerard smiled at the feminine logic, and hung his head at the sweet praise, and was silent. “Speak not,” murmured Margaret. “They say this is a world of sin and misery. Can that be? What is your opinion?” “No! that is all a silly old song,” explained Gerard. “'Tis a byword our elders keep repeating, out of custom: it is not true.” “How can you know? You are but a child,” said Margaret, with pensive dignity. “Why, only look round! And then thought I had lost you for ever; and you are by my side; and now the minstrels are going to play again. Sin and misery? Stuff and nonsense!” The lutes burst out. The courtyard rang again with their delicate harmony. “What do you admire most of all these beautiful things, Gerard?” “You know my name? How is that?” “White magic. I am a--witch.” “Angels are never witches. But I can't think how you--” “Foolish boy! was it not cried at the gate loud enough to deave one?” “So it was. Where is my head? What do I admire most? If you will sit a little more that way, I'll tell you.” “This way?” “Yes; so that the light may fall on you. There! I see many fair things here, fairer than I could have conceived; but the fairest of all, to my eye, is your lovely hair in its silver frame, and the setting sun kissing it. It minds me of what the Vulgate praises for beauty, 'an apple of gold in a network of silver,' and oh, what a pity I did not know you before I sent in my poor endeavours at illuminating! I could illuminate so much better now. I could do everything better. There, now the sun is full on it, it is like an aureole. So our Lady looked, and none since her until to-day.”