'Never.' 'Oh God, I cannot hear that voice and think of the priest who went away for ever!' 'Perhaps that voice will, in the end, bring him back.' 'I'd give all the world that it did,' said Parkinson passionately. The two men gazed at one another in silence. The voice once more took possession of the place. Another interval. Parkinson was deeply moved. 'I admit,' he said hoarsely, 'that nothing affects me so profoundly as music of the pathetic kind. But, Osborne, isn't it hard to think at such a moment as this that one's wife and children are no more than visions lent him for a few years, to pass away for ever afterwards?' 'I believe nothing of the kind. Your creed is simply an atrocious blasphemy.' 'Sometimes--now, for instance--I am of your mind.' The voice once more. While she sang Osborne thought: 'How can this man be a sceptic, and have a wife who can plead to Heaven like this? How can he believe man was created to plead so and be unheard?' The song ceased, and Parkinson took up the refrain, and sang it in a low soft voice. '_Miserere nobis_.' He whispered, 'At this moment no man could sing more earnestly than I, _Miserere nobis_.' 'Does your wife sing often?' asked Osborne softly. 'Yes, pretty often.' 'Does she often sing that song?' Osborne asked, thinking that no sermon of more power could be preached to any man's heart than to hear the wife he loved pleading so for her husband, her children, herself. 'The song does not suit her voice. Hers is a soprano. She will not dare to sing after your sister.' 'Sister, sister!' cried Osborne. 'My sister's voice is a soprano too.' 'Then it must be your sweetheart who sang. She is as fine as Trebelli, with more pathos. I have no fear of lending you those books now.' CHAPTER VII. WHAT THE AVON SAID. Without any further conversation the two men rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room. Osborne's heart was too full for speech. He cast at Marie one look of love and devotion, into which stole an unfamiliar fear. He moved over to where Mrs Parkinson sat, and taking a chair, fell into conversation with her. There was no more music that night. All had been impressed too deeply by that song to care for any other. A second must prove an anticlimax. Osborne, in that one short glance, saw on Marie's face an expression he had never observed there before. The eyes had grown deep and dark and sad and _spirituelle_. Her face was slightly paler than usual, and her hands drooped with unaccustomed languor. He had seen her in many phases, but never yet so inert. She looked subdued, abstracted. She had thrown such fervour into that song that her physical resources were diminished. Her spirit had entered upon a new phase, as though the prayer of the song had been heard and new avenues of spiritual view had been opened to her. The guests did not stay late. Then the Osbornes, with Miss Gordon, drove back to Peter's Row.