‘Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh, take him to your care.’
Now shall the angels hear for certain. Come, child; one, two——”
“‘Angels——’”
sang Miss Linley.
“Brava!” cried her father sotto voce, as the sound thrilled through the room and there was a suggestion of an answering vibration from the voice of the harpsichord.
“‘Angels, ever bright and fair,
Take, oh, take me——’”
The harpsichord jingled alone. The girl’s voice failed. She threw herself into a chair, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a passion of sobbing.
“Oh, if he does not arrive after all—if some accident has happened—if—if——”
The apprehensions which she was too much overcome to name were emphasised in the glance that she cast at her father. Her eyes, the most marvellous wells of deep tenderness that ever woman possessed, at all times suggested a certain pathetic emotion of fear, causing every man who looked into their depths to seek to be her protector from the danger they seemed to foresee; but at this moment they appeared to look straight into the face of disaster.
“If I could translate that expression of your face into music, I should be the greatest musician alive,” said her father.