“And yet,” said Féraz meditatively,--“though I cannot reason it out, I am sure of what I feel. My ‘dream’ is more life-like than life itself,--and as for my beloved people yonder, I tell you I have heard them singing the harvest-home.” And with a quick soft step he went to the piano, opened it, and began to play. El-Râmi leaned back in his chair mute and absorbed,--did ever common keyed instrument give forth such enchanting sounds? Was ever written music known that could, when performed, utter such divine and dulcet eloquence? There was nothing earthly in the tune, it seemed to glide from under the player’s fingers like a caress upon the air,--and an involuntary sigh broke from El-Râmi’s lips as he listened. Féraz heard that sigh, and turned round smiling. “Is there not something familiar in the strain?” he asked. “Do you not see them all, so fair and light and lithe of limb, coming over the fields homewards as the red Ring burns low in the western sky? Surely--surely you remember?” A slight shudder shook El-Râmi’s frame,--he pressed his hands over his eyes, and seemed to collect himself by a strong effort,--then, walking over to the piano, he took his young brother’s hands from the keys and held them for a moment against his breast. “Keep your illusions”--he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. “Keep them,--and your faith,--together. It is for you to dream, and for me to prove. Mine is the hardest lot. There may be truth in your dreams,--there may be deception in my proofs--Heaven only knows! Were you not of my own blood, and dearer to me than most human things, I should, like every scientist worthy of the name, strive to break off your spiritual pinions and make of you a mere earth-grub even as most of us are made,--but I cannot do it,--I have not the heart to do it,--and if I had the heart”--he paused a moment,--then went on slowly--“I have not the power. Good-night!” He left the room abruptly without another word or look,--and the beautiful young Féraz gazed after his retreating figure doubtfully and with something of wondering regret. Was it worth while, he thought, to be so wise, if wisdom made one at times so sad?--was it well to sacrifice Faith for Fact, when Faith was so warm and Fact so cold? Was it better to be a dreamer of things possible, or a worker-out of things positive? And how much was positive after all? and how much possible? He balanced the question lightly with himself,--it was like a discord in the music of his mind, and disturbed his peace. He soon dismissed the jarring thought, however, and, closing the piano, glanced round the room to make sure that nothing more was required for his brother’s service or comfort that night, and then he went away to resume his interrupted slumbers,--perchance to take up the chorus of his “people” singing in what he deemed his native star. IV.