But the time she liked best for weaving her spells was after sunset,
before the lamps were lighted.

"You are fond of music, Sir Edgar," she would say to me. "Come, and I
will sing you some songs I used to sing years ago."

And she did sing. Listening to her, I could well believe in the
far-famed Orpheus lute. It was enough to bewilder any man. She had a
sweet, rich voice, a contralto of no ordinary merit, and the way in
which she used it was something never to be forgotten.

There was a deep bay-window in the drawing-room, my favorite nook; from
it there was a splendid view of waving trees and blooming flowers. She
would place my chair there for me and then sing until she sung my senses
away. There was such power, such pathos, such passion, in her voice that
no one could listen to it unmoved.

Then, when she had sung until my very senses were steeped in the sweet
madness of her music, she would come and sit, sometimes by my side,
sometimes on a Turkish cushion at my feet.

And then--well, I do not like to say more, but as women can woo, she
wooed me. Sometimes her hand, so warm and soft, would touch mine;
sometimes, to see what I was reading, she would bend over me until her
hair brushed my cheek and the perfume of the flowers she always wore
reached me.

Thank God, I say again, that I was shielded by a pure love.