embarrasses me."

"You should contrive to look a little less beautiful then, Philippa," he
rejoined. "What was that last song?"

"It is a new one," she replied, "called 'My Queen.'"

"I should like to read the words," said Lord Arleigh.

In a few minutes she had found it for him, and they bent over the
printed page together; her dark hair touched his cheek, the perfume from
the white lilies she wore seemed to entrance him; he could not
understand the spell that lay over him.

"Is it not beautiful?" she said.

"Yes, beautiful, but ideal; few women, I think, would equal this poet's
queen."

"You do not know--you cannot tell, Norman. I think any woman who loves,
and loves truly, becomes a queen."

He looked at her, wondering at the passion in her voice--wondering at
the expression on her beautiful face.

"You are incredulous," she said; "but it is true. Love is woman's
dominion; let her but once enter it, and she becomes a queen; her heart
and soul grow grander, the light of love crowns her. It is the real
diadem of womanhood, Norman; she knows no other."