"How do you do, Miss Mosser?" said Beaumont, tranquilly. "I was taking a stroll on the common, and saw you sitting here alone, like the Genius of Solitude." "I often come here," observed Cecilia, placidly, folding her hands. "This is a favourite spot of mine--I know every inch of the way." "You are not afraid of losing yourself?" "I was at first," said the blind girl, with a quiet laugh, "but I soon got to know my way about. I could find my way here on the darkest night." "Like Bulwer Lytton's Nydia," remarked Beaumont, idly casting himself down on the grass. "Yes. Like her, it is always darkest night with me," replied Cecilia, with a sigh. "Still, I have my compensations, for I can hear many sounds that very likely escape the notice of you fortunate people who can see." "What kind of sounds?" asked the artist, more for the sake of making a remark than because he cared to know. "The flowing of the river, the whispering of the wind, the humming of the bees and the rustle of the gorse--they all seem to me to have human voices and tell me stories. I can well understand those old legends where mortals heard voices everywhere, and understood the sayings of the waves and the melancholy voice of the night winds." "As Siegfried understood the language of birds," said Beaumont. "You require no dragon's blood to teach you that, I suppose?" "I don't know what you mean, exactly," replied Cecilia, in a puzzled tone, for she had never heard of the Niebelung's Ring, "but the birds do speak to me--that is, I fancy they do--I love to hear the cuckoo and the throstle, then the lark--ah! the lark is the most charming of all!" "So the poets think. There is no bird who has inspired more poetry than the lark--from Shakespeare down to Tennyson--and I suppose you put all your fancies into music?" "Yes, I often try to do so, but I don't think anyone understands the meaning but myself," answered Cecilia, with a faint smile. "You know the English are not a music loving nation." "That depends on how you define music," said the artist, cynically. "The great B. P. like something with a tune in it, but when they hear anything they can't understand, such as Bach and Spohr, they admire it all the same. I'm afraid the B. P.'s a humbug." "You are terribly severe," said Cecilia, laughing. "I hope you won't criticise our concert?" "No. I assure you I am the most lenient of critics; I will come to admire beauties, not to find out faults. Besides, Blake is going to sing--and his voice is charming." "Yes, it is," replied the blind girl, cordially, "and Miss Challoner sings very well, also. She is going to sing a duet with Mr. Blake, if she can get away for one night from the squire." "Oh, that will be easily arranged, I've no doubt," said Beaumont, carelessly. "Doctor Nestley will attend to that." As he uttered this name a vivid flush passed over the pale face of the girl, and Beaumont noticed it with secret amazement.