"I often come here," observed Cecilia, placidly, folding her hands. "This is a favourite spot of mine--I know every inch of the way."
"You are not afraid of losing yourself?"
"I was at first," said the blind girl, with a quiet laugh, "but I soon got to know my way about. I could find my way here on the darkest night."
"Like Bulwer Lytton's Nydia," remarked Beaumont, idly casting himself down on the grass.
"Yes. Like her, it is always darkest night with me," replied Cecilia, with a sigh. "Still, I have my compensations, for I can hear many sounds that very likely escape the notice of you fortunate people who can see."
"What kind of sounds?" asked the artist, more for the sake of making a remark than because he cared to know.
"The flowing of the river, the whispering of the wind, the humming of the bees and the rustle of the gorse--they all seem to me to have human voices and tell me stories. I can well understand those old legends where mortals heard voices everywhere, and understood the sayings of the waves and the melancholy voice of the night winds."
"As Siegfried understood the language of birds," said Beaumont. "You require no dragon's blood to teach you that, I suppose?"
"I don't know what you mean, exactly," replied Cecilia, in a puzzled tone, for she had never heard of the Niebelung's Ring, "but the birds do speak to me--that is, I fancy they do--I love to hear the cuckoo and the throstle, then the lark--ah! the lark is the most charming of all!"
"So the poets think. There is no bird who has inspired more poetry than the lark--from Shakespeare down to Tennyson--and I suppose you put all your fancies into music?"