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"What a voice! A positive golden flute!"
His rapt face betokened his enjoyment, and Errington, nothing loth,
still lingered, his eyes fixed on the white-robed slim figure framed in
the dark old rose-wreathed window--the figure that swayed softly with
the motion of the wheel and the rhythm of the song,--while flickering
sunbeams sparkled now and then on the maiden's dusky gold hair, or
touched up a warmer tint on her tenderly flushed cheeks, and fair neck,
more snowy than the gown she wore. Music poured from her lips as from
the throat of a nightingale. The words she sang were Norwegian, and her
listeners understood nothing of them; but the melody,--the pathetic
appealing melody,--soul-moving as all true melody must be, touched the
very core of their hearts, and entangled them in a web of delicious
reveries.
"Talk of Ary Scheffer's Gretchen!" murmured Lorimer with a sigh. "What a
miserable, pasty, milk-and-watery young person she is beside that
magnificent, unconscious beauty! I give in, Phil! I admit your taste.


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