LITMIR.BIZ

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as it chanced, was ten minutes late. She did not hear his voice till he had sunk on his knee by her side.

      "What a reverie!" he said half jealously. "Isn't it lovely here?"

      Emilia pressed his hand, but without turning her face to him, as her habit was. He took it for shyness, and encouraged her with soft exclamations and expansive tenderness.

      "I wish I had not come here!" she murmured.

      "Tell me why?" He folded his arm about her waist.

      "Why did you let me wait?" said she.

      Wilfrid drew out his watch; blamed the accident that had detained him, and remarked that there were not many minutes to witness against him.

      She appeared to throw off her moodiness. "You are here at last. Let me hold your hand, and think, and be quite silent."

      "You shall hold my hand, and think, and be quite silent, my own girl! if you will tell me what's on your mind."

      Emilia thought it enough to look in his face, smiling.

      "Has any one annoyed you?" he cried out.

      "No one."

      "Then receive the command of your lord, that you kiss him."

      "I will kiss him," said Emilia; and did so.

      The salute might have appeased an imperious lord, but was not so satisfactory to an exacting lover. He perceived, however, that, whether as lover or as lord, he must wait for her now, owing to her having waited for him: so, he sat by her, permitting his hand to be softly squeezed, and trying to get at least in the track of her ideas, while her ear was turned to the weir, and her eyes were on the glowing edges of the cedar-tree.

      Finally, on one of many deep breaths, she said: "It's over. Why were you late? But, never mind now. Never let it be long again when I am expecting you. It's then I feel so much at his mercy. I mean, if I am where I hear falling water; sometimes thunder."

      Wilfrid masked his complete mystification with a caressing smile; not without a growing respect for the only person who could make him experience the pangs of conscious silliness. You see, he was not a coxcomb.

      "That German!" Emilia enlightened him.

      "Your old music-master?"

      "I wish it, I wish it! I should soon be free from him. Don't you know that dreadful man I told you about, who's like a black angel to me, because there is no music like his? and he's a German! I told you how I first dreamed about him, and then regularly every night, after talking with my father about Italy and his black-yellow Tedeschi, this man came over my pillow and made me call him Master, Master. And he is. He seems as if he were the master of my soul, mocking me, making me worship him in spite of my hate. I came here, thinking only of you. I heard the water like a great symphony. I fell into dreaming of my music. That's when I am at his mercy. There's no one like him. I must detest music to get free from him. How can I? He is like the God of music."

      Wilfrid now remembered certain of her allusions to this rival, who had hitherto touched him very little. Perhaps it was partly the lovely scene that lifted him to a spiritual jealousy, partly his susceptibility to a sentimental exaggeration, and partly the mysterious new charm in Emilia's manner, that was as a bordering lustre, showing how the full orb was rising behind her.

      "His name?" Wilfrid asked for.

      Emilia's lips broke to the second letter of the alphabet; but she cut short the word. "Why should you hear it? And now that you are here, you drive him away. And the best is," she laughed, "I am sure you will not remember any of his pieces. I wish I could not--not that it's the memory; but he seems all round me, up in the air, and when the trees move all together...you chase him away, my lover!"

      It was like a break in music, the way that Emilia suddenly closed her sentence; coming with a shock of flattering surprise upon Wilfrid.

      Then she pursued: "My English lover! I am like Italy, in chains to that German, and you...but no, no, no! It's not quite a likeness, for my German is not a brute. I have seen his picture in shop-windows: the wind seemed in his hair, and he seemed to hear with his eyes: his forehead frowning so. Look at me, and see. So!"

      Emilia pressed up the hair from her temples and bent her brows.

      "It does not increase your beauty," said Wilfrid.

      "There's the difference!" Emilia sighed mildly. "He sees angels, cherubs, and fairies, and imps, and devils; or he hears them: they come before him from far off, in music. They do to me, now and then. Only now and then, when my head's on fire.--My lover!"

      Wilfrid pressed his mouth to the sweet instrument. She took his kiss fully, and gave her own frankly, in return. Then, sighing a very little, she said: "Do not kiss me much."

      "Why not?"

      "No!"

      "But, look at me."

      "I will look at you. Only take my hand. See the moon is getting whiter. The water there is like a pool of snakes, and then they struggle out, and roll over and over, and stream on lengthwise. I can see their long flat heads, and their eyes: almost their skins. No, my lover! do not kiss me. I lose my peace."

      Wilfrid was not willing to relinquish his advantage, and the tender deep tone of the remonstrance was most musical and catching. What if he pulled her to earth from that rival of his in her soul? She would then be wholly his own. His lover's sentiment had grown rageingly jealous of the lordly German. But Emilia said, "I have you on my heart more when I touch your hand only, and think. If you kiss me, I go into a cloud, and lose your face in my mind."

      "Yes, yes;" replied Wilfrid, pleased to sustain the argument for the sake of its fruitful promises. "But you must submit to be kissed, my darling. You will have to."

      She gazed inquiringly.

      "When you are married, I mean."

      "When will you marry me?" she said.

      The heir-apparent of the house of Pole blinked probably at that moment more foolishly than most mortal men have done. Taming his astonishment to represent a smile, he remarked: "When? are you thinking about it already?"

      She answered, in a quiet voice that conveyed the fact forcibly, "Yes."

      "But you're too young yet; and you're going to Italy, to learn in the schools. You wouldn't take a husband there with you, would you? What would the poor devil do?"

      "But you are not too young," said she.

      Wilfrid supposed not.

      "Could you not go to my Italy with me?"

      "Impossible! What! as a dangling husband?" Wilfrid laughed scornfully.

      "They would love you too," she said. "They are such loving people. Oh, come! Consent to come, my lover! I must learn. If I do not, you will despise me. How can I bring anything to lay at your feet, my dear! my dear! if I do not?"

      "Impossible!" Wilfrid reiterated, as one who had found moorings in the word.

      "Then I will give up Italy!"

      He had not previously acted hypocrite with this amazing girl. Nevertheless, it became difficult not to do so. He could scarcely believe that he had on a sudden, and by strange agency, slipped into an earnest situation. Emilia's attitude and tone awakened him to see it. Her hands were clenched straight down from the shoulders: all that she conceived herself to be renouncing for his sake was expressed in her face.

      "Would you, really?" he murmured.

      "I will!"

      "And be English altogether?"

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