It harmonised with the melody of Dante's verses, fit accompaniment
to many a passage of profound feeling, of noble imagery. Even now he
had been brooding the anguish of Maestro Adamo who hears for ever

Li ruscelletti che de' verdi colli
Del Casentin discendon giuso in Arno--"

and the music of the Tuscan fountains blended with the voice of this
moorland stream.

There was a knock at the door; the maid-servant handed him a letter;
it came from Piers. The father read it, and, after a few lines, with
grave visage. Piers began by saying that, a day or two ago, he had
all but resolved to run down to Hawes, for he had something very
serious to speak about; on the whole, it seemed better to make the
communication in writing.

"I have abandoned the examination, and all thought of the Civil
Service. If I invented reasons for this, you would not believe them,
and you would think ill of me. The best way is to tell you the plain
truth, and run the risk of being thought a simpleton, or something
worse. I have been in great trouble, have gone through a bad time.
Some weeks ago there came to stay here a girl of eighteen or
nineteen, the daughter of Dr. Lowndes Derwent (whose name perhaps
you know). She is very beautiful, and I was unlucky enough--if I
ought to use such a phrase--to fall in love with her. I won't try
to explain what this meant to me; you wouldn't have patience to read
it; but it stopped my studies, utterly overthrew my work. I was all
but ill; I suffered horribly. It was my first such experience; I
hope it may be the last--in that form. Indeed, I believe it will,