"Sir, however did you get to hear that? O!"—I quite screamed as the reminiscence shook me,—"oh, sir, did you write the 'Tone-Wreath'?"
He gave me a look which seemed to drink up my soul. "I plucked a garland, but it was beyond the Grampian Hills."
"You did write it! I knew it when I heard it, sir. I am so delighted! I knew the instant she played it, and she thought so too; but of course we could not be quite sure."
He made the very slightest gesture of impatience. "Never mind the 'Tone-Wreath'! There are May-bells enough on the hills that we are to go to."
I was insensibly reminded of his race; but its bitterness was all sheathed in beauty when I looked again. So beautiful was he that I could not help looking at his face. So we are drawn to the evening star, so to the morning roses; but with how different a spell! For just where theirs is closed, did his begin its secret, still attraction; the loveliness, the symmetry were lost as the majestic spirit seized upon the soul through the sight, and conquered.
"You have not told me your name. Is it so difficult for me to pronounce? I will try very hard to say it, and I wish to know it."
No "I will" was ever so irresistible.—"Charles Auchester."
"That is a tell-tale name. But I can never forget what was written for me on your forehead the day you were so kind to me in a foreign country. Do you like me, Charles,—well enough to wish to know me?"
I can never describe the innocent regality of his manner here,—it was something never to be imagined, that voice in that peculiar key.
"Sir, I know how many friends you must have, and how they must admire you. I don't think any of them love you as I do, and always did ever since that day. I wish I could tell you, but it's of no use. I can't, though I quite burn to tell you, and to make you know. I do love you better than I love my life, and you are the only person I love better than music. I would go to the other end of the world, and never see you any more, rather than I would be in your way or tire you. Will you believe me?"