"Where and how shall I earliest meet her? What are the words she first will say? By what name shall I learn to greet her? I know not now, but 'twill come some day. With the self-same sunlight shining upon her, Streaming down on her ringlets' sheen, She is standing somewhere, she I would honor, She that I wait for, my Queen, my Queen! I will not dream of her tall and stately, She that I love may be fairy light; I will not say she should walk sedately, Whatever she does it will surely be right. And she may be humble or proud, my lady, Or that sweet calm that is just between; But whenever she comes she will find me ready To do her homage, my Queen, my Queen! But she must be courteous, she must be holy, Pure in her spirit, that maiden I love-- Whether her birth be noble or lowly, I care no more than the angels above. And I'll give my heart to my lady's keeping, And ever her strength on mine shall lean; And the stars shall fall, and the angels be weeping, Ere I cease to love her, my Queen, my Queen!" De Vere did not like his friend's selection much. He regretted that he had asked him to sing. "It sounds like he was singing to her," he said, discontentedly to himself as he watched the couple at the piano. "What does the fellow mean, and what will Lady Adela think?" he wondered; and glancing toward her he saw that she was looking very cross over the top of her fan. Truth to tell, she was very much in doubt whether to appropriate the song to herself. When the song was ended De Vere, who had lingered jealously near the piano, went up to Leonora's side. "I thought you were going to rest while some one else sung," he said, reproachfully. She glanced up with a smile at Lord Lancaster. "So I was," she replied, lightly, "but Captain Lancaster wished me to play while he sung for Lady Adela. So of course I could not refuse." Lancaster gazed into her face with amazement. Was she indeed so blind, or did she purposely slight the tribute he had paid to her, and which he had believed she could not fail to understand? Angered and chagrined, he bowed his thanks coldly, and retired from the piano, leaving a fair field for his rival. He went out through the open window and wandered into the grounds, driven from her presence by the pain of her coldness, her studied indifference. There was a gulf between them that grew wider and wider at every effort he made to bridge it. "Heaven help me! I am a fool to waste my heart on one who laughs at my love," he said to himself. "I will tear her from my heart. I will never show her again the tenderness of a heart she chooses to trample. She will choose De Vere. That is wise. He is rich, I have nothing but Lancaster. Yet, if she would love me, I could bear poverty without a sigh, deeming myself rich in her affection."