And into the song went all the longing of her soul, the soul that
could not go to Paradise, but could only worship God and know the
meaning of music, and the longing pervaded that Italian song as the
infinite mystery of the hills is borne along the sound of distant
sheep-bells. Then in the souls that were in that crowded house arose
little memories of a great while since that were quite quite dead,
and lived awhile again during that marvellous song.

And a strange chill went into the blood of all that listened, as
though they stood on the border of bleak marshes and the North Wind
blew.

And some it moved to sorrow and some to regret, and some to an
unearthly joy,--then suddenly the song went wailing away like the
winds of the winter from the marshlands when Spring appears from the
South.

So it ended. And a great silence fell fog-like over all that house,
breaking in upon the end of a chatty conversation that Cecilia,
Countess of Birmingham, was enjoying with a friend.

In the dead hush Signorina Russiano rushed
from the stage; she appeared again running among the audience, and
dashed up to Lady Birmingham.

'Take my soul,' she said; 'it is a beautiful soul. It can worship
God, and knows the meaning of music and can imagine Paradise. And if
you go to the marshlands with it you will see beautiful things;
there is an old town there built of lovely timbers, with ghosts in
its streets.'