do for me; the songs I love best I know by heart. Shut your eyes,
Norman, and dream."

"I shall dream more vividly if I keep them open and look at you," he
returned.

Then in a few minutes he began to think he must be in dream-land--the
rich, sweet voice, so clear, so soft, so low, was filling the room with
sweetest music. It was like no human voice that he remembered;
seductive, full of passion and tenderness--a voice that told its own
story, that told of its owner's power and charm--a voice that carried
away the hearts of the listeners irresistibly as the strong current
carries the leaflet.

She sang of love, mighty, irresistible love, the king before whom all
bow down; and as she sang he looked at her. The soft, pearly light of
the lamps fell on her glorious face, and seemed to render it more
beautiful. He wondered what spell was fast falling over him, for he saw
nothing but Philippa's face, heard nothing but the music that seemed to
steep his senses as in a dream.

How fatally, wondrously lovely she was, this siren who sang to him of
love, until every sense was full of silent ecstasy, until his face
flushed, and his heart beat fast. Suddenly his eyes met hers; the
scarlet lips trembled, the white fingers grew unsteady; her eyelids
drooped, and the sweet music stopped.

She tried to hide her confusion by smiling.

"You should not look at me, Norman," she said, "when I sing; it