The clock struck eight. She was, after all, ready too soon so she
wrapped her white opera cloak around her, and went down to the
drawing-room. To pass the time, she thought she would sing a little, as
indeed she now made a point of doing daily, and would have done,
whether she cared for it or not, if only out of gratitude to the love which
had delighted itself in giving her pleasure.

But she did care for it. Nothing, nobody, could quench the artist nature
which, the instant the heavy weight of sorrow was taken away, sprang
up like a living fountain in this girl's soul. She sang, quite alone in the
room, but with such a keen delight, such a perfect absorption of enjoyment,
that she never noticed her husband's entrance till he had stood for
some minutes behind her chair. When he touched her she started, then
smiled.

"Oh, it is only you!"

"Only me. Did I trouble you?"

"Oh no; was I not troubling you?"

"How, my dear?"

Christian could not tell. Anyhow she found it impossible to explain,
except that she had fancied he did not care for music.

"Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't. But I care for _you._ Tell me," he sat
down and took her hand, "does not Arthur's 'bird' sometimes feel a little
like a bird in a cage? Do you not wish you lived in the world--in
London, where you could go to concerts and balls, instead of being shut