She faced it. She
determined she would, with all the ghosts of the past that hovered
round it. And soon she found how, thus faced, as says that other lovely
song of Handel's, which she had learned at the same time:
_"The wandering shadows, ghostly pale,
All troop to their infernal jail:
Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave."_
Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the past. She had
begun her song feebly and uncertainly; but when she really heard the
sound of her own voice echoing through the lofty room, with a gush of
melody that the old walls had not known for centuries, there came upon
her an intoxication of enjoyment. It was that pure enjoyment which all
true artists--be they singers, painters, poets--understand, and they only--
the delight in mere creation, quite distinct from any sympathy or
admiration of others; and oh how far removed from any mean vanity or
love of praise.
Christian was happy--happy as a lark in the air, just to hear--and make--
the sound of her own singing. Her face brightened; her figure, as she
stood leaning against the mantel-piece assumed a new grace and
dignity. She was beautiful--absolutely beautiful and her husband saw
it.
Was it fancy if, glancing at her, Dr.
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