galleries of art, one might find such a wronged and suffering greatness in the countenance of one of the sculptured gods or heroes, but surely not elsewhere. However, it was the Passionate Outbreak,—the lightning-like fury and determination of mere manhood, springing forth despite the man himself, and making havoc of all his preconceived intentions, that won his cause for him at last. The moment came—the one moment which, truly speaking, comes but once to any human life; the pre-ordained, divine moment, brief as the sparkle of foam on a breaking wave,—the glimpse of Heaven that vanishes almost before we have looked upon it. It was a night never to be forgotten—by Delicia, at least; a night when Shakespeare’s elves might have been abroad, playing mischief with the flowers and scattering wonder-working charms upon the air—a true ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ which descended, full-visioned in silver luminance, straight from Paradise for Delicia’s sake. She was, at that time, the guest of certain ‘great’ people; the kind of ‘great’ who say they ‘must have a celebrity or two, you know!—they are such queer, dear things!’ Delicia, as a ‘queer, dear thing,’ was one of the celebrities thus entertained, and Pablo de Sarasate, also as a ‘queer, dear thing,’ was another. A number of titled and ‘highly-connected’ personages, who had the merit of being ‘queer’ without being in the least ‘dear,’ made up the rest of the party. The place they were staying at was a lordly pile, anciently the ‘summer pleasaunce’ and favourite resort of a great Norman baron in the days of Richard the Lion-hearted, and the grounds extending round and about it were of that deep-shadowed, smooth-lawned and beautifully sylvan character which only the gardens of old, historic English homes possess. Up and down, between a double hedge of roses, and under the radiance of a golden harvest moon, Delicia moved slowly with Carlyon at her side; and from the open drawing-room windows of the house floated the pure, penetrating voice of Sarasate’s violin. Something mystic in the air; something subtle in the scent of the roses; a stray flash of light on the falling drops of the fountain close by, which perpetually built and unbuilt again its glittering cupola of spray, or some other little nothing of the hour, brought both man and woman to a sudden pause,—a conscious pause, in which they each fancied they could hear their own hearts beating loudly above the music of the distant violin. And the man,—the elected son of Mars, who had never yet lifted his manhood to the height of battle, there to confront horror upon horror, shock upon shock,—now sprang up full-armed in the lists of love, and, strong with a strength he had hardly been aware of as existing in himself before, he swiftly and boldly grasped his prize. ‘Delicia!’ he whispered—‘Delicia, I love you!’