The truth was that, since I had loved Mary Osborne, I had attempted to cultivate a certain small gift of song which I thought I possessed. I dared not touch any existent music, for I was certain I should break down; but having a faculty--somewhat thin, I fear--for writing songs, and finding that a shadowy air always accompanied the birth of the words, I had presumed to study music a little, in the hope of becoming able to fix the melody--the twin sister of the song. I had made some progress, and had grown able to write down a simple thought. There was little presumption, then, in venturing my voice, limited as was its scope, upon a trifle of my own. Tempted by the opportunity of realizing hopes consciously wild, I obeyed my friend, and, sitting down to the instrument in some trepidation, sang the following verses-- I dreamed that I woke from a dream, And the house was full of light; At the window two angel Sorrows Held back the curtains of night. The door was wide, and the house Was full of the morning wind; At the door two armed warders Stood silent, with faces blind. I ran to the open door, For the wind of the world was sweet; The warders with crossing weapons Turned back my issuing feet. I ran to the shining windows-- There the winged Sorrows stood; Silent they held the curtains, And the light fell through in a flood. I clomb to the highest window-- Ah! there, with shadowed brow, Stood one lonely radiant Sorrow, And that, my love, was thou. I could not have sung this in public, but that no one would suspect it was my own, or was in the least likely to understand a word of it--except her for whose ears and heart it was intended. As soon as I had finished, I rose, and once more went searching for Mary. But as I looked, sadly fearing she was gone, I heard her voice close behind me. ‘Are those verses your own, Mr Cumbermede?’ she asked, almost in a whisper. I turned trembling. Her lovely face was looking up at me. ‘Yes,’ I answered--‘as much my own as that I believe they are not to be found anywhere. But they were given to me rather than made by me.’ ‘Would you let me have them? I am not sure that I understand them.’ ‘I am not sure that I understand them myself. They are for the heart rather than the mind. Of course you shall have them. They were written for you. All I have, all I am, is yours.’ Her face flushed, and grew pale again instantly. ‘You must not talk so,’ she said. ‘Remember.’ ‘I can never forget. I do not know why you say _remember_.’ ‘On second thoughts, I must not have the verses. I beg your pardon.’ ‘Mary, you bewilder me. I have no right to ask you to explain, except that you speak as if I must understand. What have they been telling you about me?’ ‘Nothing--at least nothing that--’ She paused.