Not then was love mere lust, marriage mere convenience, and life mere covetousness of gain. There was something higher, greater, purer than these,--something of the inspiring breath of God, which, according to the old Biblical narrative, was breathed into humanity with the words--"Let us make man in Our image, after Our likeness." That 'image' of God was featured gloriously in the waves of music which surged through Cicely's brain and fingers, out on the responsive air,--and when she ceased playing there followed a dumb spell of wonderment and awe, which those who had listened to her marvellous improvisation were afraid to break by a word or movement. And then, with a smile at their mute admiration and astonishment, she had passed her small supple hands lightly again over the piano- keys, evoking therefrom a playful prelude, and the pure silvery sound of her voice had cloven the air asunder with De Musset's 'Adieu, Suzon!'

"Adieu, Suzon, ma rose blonde, Qui m'as aime pendant huit jours! Les plus courts plaisirs de ce monde Souvent font les meilleurs amours.

Sais-je au moment ou je te quitte Ou m'entraine mon astre errant? Je m'en vais pourtant, ma petite, Bien loin, bien vite, Adieu, Suzon!"

Was it possible for any man with a drop of warm blood flowing through his veins, not to feel a quicker heart-beat, a swifter pulse, at the entrancing, half-melancholy, half-mocking sweetness she infused into these lines?