Despard sighed. “Perhaps it is better not; for I feel as though, if you were to sing it, my heart would break.”
“Do you believe that hearts can break?” she asked gently, but with indescribable pathos.
Despard looked at her mournfully, and said not a word.
CHAPTER XXVI. — CLASPED HANDS.
Their singing went on.
They used to meet once a week and sing in the church at the organ. Despard always went up to the Grange and accompanied her to the church. Yet he scarcely ever went at any other time. A stronger connection and a deeper familiarity arose between them, which yet was accompanied by a profound reverence on Despard’s part, that never diminished, but as the familiarity increased only grew more tender and more devoted.
There were many things about their music which he had to say to her. It constituted a common bond between them on which they could talk, and to which they could always revert. It formed a medium for the communion of soul—a lofty, spiritual intercourse, where they seemed to blend, even as their voices blended, in a purer realm, free from the trouble of earth.
Amidst it all Despard had so much to tell her about the nature of the Eastern music that he wrote out a long letter, which he gave her they parted after an unusually lengthy practice. Part of it was on the subject of music, and the rest of a different character.