Fresh applause--fresh entreaties. A moment's silence, and then the great singer seats himself at the piano, and pours out again in the matchless melody of his voice these words: The old, old pain of earth On land or sea, And all that makes life worth For you or me. What is it, darling, say, While stars shine on above. What makes us glad or gay? 'Tis love--'tis love! The world's old weariness, What can it be, And all life's sad mistakes That sad lives see. What makes them, darling, say, While here we hold our bliss: What makes us glad to day? A word--a kiss. The strange winds sigh above The bending trees, And strange and sad days, love, May follow these. What care we, darling, now, Since love is ours, For winter blasts that rob The summer flowers? So that our hearts be one, So that our love be true, The world may laugh or frown For me and you. Men may be wise or fools, Stars may die out above; We ask of life no gift, But love--but love![1] [1] These words are copyright. He has set the words to music of his own. Music sad and gay and triumphant all in one. Music that finds its way from ear to heart, and fairly carries away the listeners. As he ceases--as the rapturous exclamations of the crowd sound stormily after the long silence--Lauraine looks up and meets Keith Athelstone's eyes. Only a look! But looks have broken the fetters of a lifetime's silence before now, and in that moment the secret of two hearts is revealed as clearly and distinctly as if a trumpet-blast had shouted it to their ears. Their eyes droop. Neither speaks. A moment or two pass on. Then comes a hoarse whisper to Lauraine's ear. "Come away from this crowd; it is stifling, and that man has spoilt all other singing for to-night." Without a word she rises and takes his arm. She feels like one in a dream. Senses, feelings--all are lulled to a strange mysterious repose, and now and then her heart thrills with a dreamy rapturous ecstasy. The memory of that perfect melody is about her still, and follows her out into the shadows of the night, and the dim walks of the quaint old garden. She feels disturbed, perplexed, but almost happy. She has not noticed where he is taking her; only the breath of the cool night air is on her brow, and her eyes, dark and passionate as his own, gaze up at the tranquil lustre of the stars. Under the trees they stand, and face one another at last. He sees only a slender white figure, with the moon shedding its silver rays around it, and two quivering lips that part as if to speak. With a sudden ungovernable impulse he draws her to his breast, and on the trembling mouth spends the pent-up passion of his heart in one long kiss. CHAPTER VIII