"Sometimes like a voice, sometimes like birds. And then it sobs and cries, and dies away, and then it sounds out again, like 'blow up the trumpet in the new moon,' and goes up, up, up, oh, so high! Do you think that is when the angel goes up to the gate, and then is sorry for people here, and comes back again? I have thought of that."
"My bonny Sir Hugh!" said Hildegarde gently. "Would you care less about the lovely music if it was not really made by an angel? if it was a person like you and me, who had the power and the love to make such beautiful sounds?"
The child's face lightened. "Was it you?" he said in an awe-struck voice.
"Not I, dear, but my cousin, my cousin Jack, who plays the violin most beautifully, Hugh. He practises every night, up in the garret at Roseholme, because—only think! his uncle does not like to hear him."
"The ostrich gentleman!" cried Hugh, bursting into merry laughter. "Is it the ostrich gentleman?"
Hildegarde tried to look grave, with moderate success. "My cousin is tall," she said, "but you must not call names, little lad!"
"Never any more will I call him it," cried Hugh, "if he is really the angel. But he does look like one. Must we go?" he asked wistfully, as Hildegarde rose, and held out her hand to him.
"Yes, dear, I am going to the village, you know. I thought we would come this way because I wanted you to see the Ladies' Garden. Now we must go across the meadow, and round by the back of Roseholme to find the road again."
They crossed the brook by some mossy stepping-stones, and climbed the dark slope on the further side, thick-set with ferns and dusky hemlock-trees. Then came the wall, and then the sudden break into the sunny meadow. Hugh threw off his grave mood with the shadow, and danced and leaped in the sunshine.
"Shall I run with Merlin?" he asked. "You have never seen us run, Beloved!"