"Good-bye;" and with a spring and a rattle, a scramble of horses and encouraging cry of the coachman, the two young men were borne away.

The road from Amalfi to Salerno winds on the side of rounded hills, which slope abruptly down into the sea. The hills were doubly beautiful in the fresh light of morning and the fresh green of spring. The sea was trembling with light, save where, far off, there hung a luminous, vague mist, which might veil the island of the Sirens. Everywhere was rest, but not deathlike—rest full of little movements, as the night is full of little sounds. There is no lovelier road in the world; but the young travellers from Amalfi cared not a jot about it. Harefel made a conscientious effort to note the beauties of the view. Dale, when he noticed it at all, was irritated by its insolent perfection. Nature, whom the young of a poetic turn invoke to comfort them, shows herself sometimes strangely indifferent to their moods. It was no satisfaction to Mr Irvine Dale to consider that on that morning she might be sympathising with some other young person.

109

CHAPTER X.

BRIGHT SMOKE, COLD FIRE."

So the mission of Mr Edward Harefel was successful, and Miss Archer was left alone with her father. She found it hard to begin her usual studies. When friends depart in the morning, they leave the day disjointed. Marion had a little card stuck in the frame of her looking-glass, and on the card the hours were neatly marked, and each hour had its appointed task. When some irrevocable hour went by, and its special task had not been done, the studious young lady suffered the pangs of remorse. These pangs recurred on an average once a-week. For some six days she would be punctual and regular as a nun in her cell. On the seventh she forgot or she rebelled. Either a dream possessed her, and she wandered into a land where time is not; or, seized by sudden emotion, she

turned fiercely on her self-imposed bonds, loathed her prim little card, and gave herself up to the passionate desire of a wider or higher life. She was always duly contrite for the indulgence of her imagination or her ambition. Her business was with exercises of the voice, strengthening a note, gaining certainty and flexibility, and with the learning of many languages, the study of many literatures. By double portions of these occupations, the young lady punished herself for hours of forgetfulness or fits of passion.

There seemed to Miss Archer no good reason why the routine of work should be interfered with by the departure of two young men. Indeed it was the removal of a disturbing cause. She would work the better on that day of leave-taking. Her argument was unanswerable, but she found it hard to keep her thoughts at home. She caught herself again and again speculating on the character and prospects of Irvine Dale. It seemed strange that she was so sure of success in life, and he so doubtful. Yet she was a girl, and he was a man; she was poor, and he was rich. Clever, young, handsome, and wealthy, he seemed to go open-eyed, uncertain, resentful, towards failure; while shewell, if she could not control her wandering

thoughts, she would fail too. What was this young man to her? What? She did not answer the question. She turned from it with indignation. Her maiden thoughts were impatient of this intrusion. She was not accustomed to the society of young men. She was interested by Irvine's talk, and irritated by his perplexities. She was the more irritated that she could not banish him at will from her mind. Who was he, that he should come between her and her Beethoven? If there was a more tender feeling in her heart, she did not recognise it. There are places even in her own heart where a young girl, reared in healthy air, does not pry too closely. It was certainly to the credit of Mr Sebastian Archer, who had seen many cities and ways of men, that he had kept his daughter always in the purer air.

Miss Marion Archer was restless at her work. She said to herself that she would not think of Irvine, and so thought the more. She got up and walked about. It was no use.

She heard her

father's slow, firm footfall, and slipped away to her own room. There she gave herself to certain thoughts which she could not banish. It were better, she thought, to get them over and go back to her work. So she seated herself resolutely be

more

fore the glass, and looked at her reflection critically. She gently rubbed her cheek, and saw the warm colour rise under the clear, pale skin. She felt the outline of her lips and chin. Then she leaned her head upon her hand, and considered whether she was beautiful. She looked calmly into the great eyes which looked back at her from the glass, and saw the great tears gather slowly. Her quick, light hands began to unbind the smooth coils of hair, which presently fell round her shoulders bright and abundant. Yes, she was beautiful beautiful than she had ever thought before. There was a finer touch added to her face, which her artistic eye appreciated some token of deeper feeling or extended vision. There flashed on her a speech of her quaint, old music-master of Florence-a speech which, heard with the ears only, and answered with a careless smile, now suddenly became significant. "A sweet voice," he had said, nodding his old head; "the rest will come. You should have a romance, my child-if possible, a disappointment." Had it come to her, that romance, which the monkey-like old man had prescribed? If it had, it was vastly inferior to those operatic romances which glow and grow lofty to music. It was music which made all things great,