Probably never was there a melody which more perfectly illustrated
that sort of love, the idealization of fancy and feeling, with just a
glimmer of real passion quivering through it--the light cast in advance
by the yet unrisen day.

"Not that song, Arthur. It is rather difficult besides, Papa might not
care to hear it."

"Papa might if he were tried," said Dr. Grey, smiling, "Why not do to
please me what you do to please the children?"

So Christian sang at once--ay, and that very song. She faced it. She
determined she would, with all the ghosts of the past that hovered
round it. And soon she found how, thus faced, as says that other lovely
song of Handel's, which she had learned at the same time:

_"The wandering shadows, ghostly pale,
All troop to their infernal jail:
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave."_

Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the past. She had
begun her song feebly and uncertainly; but when she really heard the
sound of her own voice echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of
melody that the old walls had not known for centuries, there came upon
her an intoxication of enjoyment. It was that pure enjoyment which all
true artists--be they singers, painters, poets--understand, and they only--
the delight in mere creation, quite distinct from any sympathy or
admiration of others; and oh how far removed from any mean vanity or
love of praise.