_Nor seek to close thine eyes, But take this good advice And quest with willing heart. For they are truly wise Who bear the smart of fire apart. Nor seek to close thine eyes._ _And shrink not from the fire If thou hast true desire Through pain to win thy day. Shake from thy feet the mire, The mud of clay gained by the way, And shrink not from the fire._ _So shall thou find thy goal, And finding gain thy soul. Thy dreaming was not all; It asked a lesser toll, A toll so small. Then came the call. So shall thou find thy goal._ The song ended a silence fell on the room. Mary Chester had heard it very sanely, the words lost for the most part in the melody that accompanied them. Leonora, dreaming, saw the goal of motherhood, though as yet distant. Monica pictured some peaceful cloister, heard the sweet tones of the Angelus. Brigid, half-smiling, sighed; saw, I fancy, further than did the others. As for Isabel, she looked at the fire. Pippo, lying on the hearth, looked from her to Peregrine. “Whose are the words?” asked Isabel. “Madam, they come from realms of fancy.” “Your own?” “Those wherein I have occasionally wandered.” “Find you many such songs there?” “Now and again. They are, however, often elusive, escaping as soon as perceived.” Isabel turned from the fire, looked full at him. She gave him now a smile, rare with her, though Peregrine was not to know that. His heart beat hotly. “Methinks,” she said, “you are poet rather than Jester.” The colour rushed to Peregrine’s face. Memory of his resolution surged towards him, yet was it driven back by the smile that trembled on her lips. “Madam, I—” he stammered. Isabel misunderstood the hesitation. She had seen his sire wince with the new jest ready on his tongue. Here was no jest ready, and strangely enough she would cloak the deficiency. “I—I am not displeased.” The words fell softly from her lips. And at that laughter sprang to Peregrine’s throat, a flash of mockery to his eyes, though he replied gravely enough and meekly, “Madam, I am at all times what you would desire me.” “Ah!” breathed Isabel watching him. Then very sweetly, “Now I see in you courtier, yet I would have you poet; therefore, sir poet, sing again.” And Peregrine sang. * * * * * Some hour or so later, Peregrine departed, Isabel asked carelessly of her women: “What think you of our Jester?” “A very proper man,” quoth Brigid demurely. “He has a sweet voice,” ventured Monica timidly. “He differs from his sire,” mused Leonora. Mary Chester alone was silent. “And you?” asked Isabel, looking directly at her.