"He is a fine fellow; eh, Loida?"

"He is as good as good can be."

66 To be sure he is."

Then he went slowly out, his pipe in his hand, and Miss Loida walked at his side. She was dressed in a light muslin gown, mostly white, but having wavering points of light green in it. A black ribbon belt was round her slim waist, and black lace mitts on her hands a stately, lovely lady, whom it was good to see and good to talk to.

The clematis arbor was empty, and they sat down in it. A nightingale was singing far off in the woods, and the reapers' voices came softly from the meadows. The air was still, warm, and radiant. It tasted of the ripe peaches and apricots, of the bergamot flowers and the hot, sweet lavender. There was a bed of white lilies not far away, and the star Venus hung like a great white lamp near the horizon.

Loida dropped her hands, and sat thinking. The squire lit his pipe, and sat thinking. They did not need to tell each other what they thought about. They understood and respected that confidential silence which is often the surest sign of trustful friendship. Suddenly the delicious air was thrilled with that melody which is beyond all other melodies-a charming human voicea voice whose living notes, joyous and entrancing, compelled all influences to become a part of its witchery. The squire was delighted. He put down his pipe and stood up to listen.

"That is Lance," he said softly; "but whatever is he singing? Wilt thou come here, Loida?"

She rose and stood beside him. She saw what he

had called her to see-Lancelot and Francesca walking slowly up the terrace steps. They were both bareheaded; they were both dressed in white, and the moonshine made a wondrous glory all over and around them. Lancelot's face was bent to Francesca's. He was telling his love in such words and tones as are only learned in moments of inspiration, and only repeated when men forget that they are mortal.

They came to the lily-bed, and they stood there. It was no wonder. The great white flowers in the heavenly light looked like the flowers of heaven. Their perfume made the heart faint with joy. Lancelot gathered one. For a momnet he held it to his lips as if he would catch its perfume to make more sweet his song. Then he gave it to Francesca, and she would have kissed it, but Lancelot caught the kiss between her lips and the flower; and so began to sing again. His bright face was lifted, and it mirrored the full glory of the moon. Francesca leaned toward him as a flower leans to the sun.

"Have you seen but a bright lily grow

Before rude hands have touched it?
Have you marked but the fall of the snow
Before the soil hath smutched it?

Have you

felt the wool of the beaver?

Or swan's-down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?

Or the nard in the fire?

Or have tasted the bag of the bee?

Oh, so white! Oh, so soft! Oh, so sweet is she!"

The exquisite words were breathed in exquisite music, in notes full of passion, sweet, ringing, and delicate. It

was like a "Gloria in Excelsis" of Palestrina's.

The

squire stood breathless, listening, tears were in Loida's eyes; without analyzing their emotions, they felt how truly a noble singer is a reed breathed through by the Spirit of God.

They went very quietly back to the house. In each heart there was the same thought-that it would be a kind of sacrilege to disturb such a service of love. Only the squire said, with a tender, melancholy sigh: "I wish I was a young man again, Loida." When they reached the house he sat down by the open window. But the song was finished, and the garden was as quiet as a garden in a dream. In an hour the lovers followed. They were silent, they were almost melancholy with the sweet sadness of earthly love. They had been on Enchanted Ground in the Land of Blissful Silence. They knew that when they uttered a word the spell would be broken.

Loida met them with a little effusion of solicitude. She divined and wished to cover their self-consciousness.

Was the dew falling? Was Francesca sure she had not taken cold? Were they not hungry? Francesca had so little tea.

The squire asked if the reapers were still at work. Did they hear their voices when they left the garden? And then, suddenly: "What wert thou singing tonight, Lance? I never heard that song before; no, nor anything like it."

"I was singing a love-song by 'rare Ben Jonson.' I set the words to music. Francesca inspired it." "Sing it once more, Lance."

"I would rather not, sir. I made the song for Francesca only. I will sing anything else you desire."

"Well, then, we will have some sea songs. There is nothing like them." And he rose and went toward the piano.

Lance was already striking some introductory chords, and the squire, who had the strange love which agriculturalists have for hearing of and singing of "the sea," was soon joining his fine baritone to Lancelot's tenor in "Hearts of Oak" and "Britannia Rules the Waves," "The Heaving of the Lead," and a dozen other nautical favorites, until they sailed with the gale "On the Bay of Biscay, O!"

This was always the squire's last song. He felt that nothing could come after its magnificent roll and its air of stormy salt water. When it was finished he sat down, as he always did, with a sigh of satisfaction, and an intense admiration for the British navy and all the jolly tars that made it. Music is a noble interpreter; the squire and Lance found each other's hearts among the sympathetic chords. They shook hands at parting as they had never done before. Francesca stood by her father's side, and they both kissed her.

"It has been a happy hour," said the squire, and Loida smiled her sweet assent, and Lancelot once more kissed his love "Good-night"; and none of them saw, in the blue heaven of their hopes, the little cloud above them the little cloud, no bigger than a man's hand.

CHAPTER VI.

"IT HAS TO BE BORNE.”

As if a door in heaven should be
Opened and then closed suddenly;
The vision came and went,

The light shone and was spent.-Longfellow.

HE cloud came from the west-from the far southTHE C It was the shadow of war; and what had war to do with the love of Lancelot and Francesca? Though the rumor and the fear of it had been in the hearts of thoughtful men for months, hitherto Lancelot had not been much troubled. His father had borne the burden of anxiety for both mills. Cotton had always been forthcoming for the looms at Atherton; Lancelot had not imagined a time when he would want "material" and not receive it.

But the time was near at hand, for the cotton land was in rebellion and its ports blockaded. There had been a great deal of talk about such a terrible calamity, but Lance had never believed it possible. The want of cotton, the consequent want of work, the certain famine and distress, had seemed to him like the lightning in heaven, far off.

He went to consult with his father. He found him in great anxiety and distress, but he also found that he had risen to the noblest point of the situation.