Her voice was pure as the ring of fine crystal--deep, liquid, and
tender, with a restrained passion in it that stirred Errington's
heart and filled it with a strange unrest and feverish yearning,--
emotions which were new to him, and which, while he realized their
existence, moved him to a sort of ashamed impatience. He would have
willingly left his post of observation now, if only for the sake of
shaking off his unwonted sensations; and he took a step or two
backwards for that purpose, when Lorimer, in his turn, laid a
detaining hand on his shoulder.

"For Heaven's sake, let us hear the song through!" he said in
subdued tones. "What a voice! A positive golden flute!"

His rapt face betokened his enjoyment, and Errington, nothing loth,
still lingered, his eyes fixed on the white-robed slim figure framed
in the dark old rose-wreathed window--the figure that swayed softly
with the motion of the wheel and the rhythm of the song,--while
flickering sunbeams sparkled now and then on the maiden's dusky gold
hair, or touched up a warmer tint on her tenderly flushed cheeks,
and fair neck, more snowy than the gown she wore. Music poured from
her lips as from the throat of a nightingale. The words she sang
were Norwegian, and her listeners understood nothing of them; but
the melody,--the pathetic appealing melody,--soul-moving as all true
melody must be, touched the very core of their hearts, and entangled
them in a web of delicious reveries.

"Talk of Ary Scheffer's Gretchen!" murmured Lorimer with a sigh.
"What a miserable, pasty, milk-and-watery young person she is beside
that magnificent, unconscious beauty! I give in, Phil! I admit your
taste. I'm willing to swear that she's a Sun-Angel if you like. Her