gone, peeped into the books and nick-nacks that were lying about, and had a particular interest in some delicate paper-matches on the chimney-piece: wondering who could have made them. That would have been worth seeing. The faltering hand with which she tied those flowers together; with which, almost blushing at her own fair self as imaged in the glass, she arranged them in her breast, and looking at them with her head aside, now half resolved to take them out again, now half resolved to leave them where they were. That would have been delightful!
John seemed to think it all delightful: for coming in with Tom to tea, he took his seat beside her like a man enchanted. And when the tea-service had been removed, and Tom, sitting down at the piano, became absorbed in some of his old organ tunes, he was still beside her at the open window, looking out upon the twilight.
There is little enough to see, in Furnival's Inn. It is a shady, quiet place, echoing to the footsteps of the stragglers who have business there; and rather monotonous and gloomy on summer evenings. What gave it such a charm to them, that they remained at the window as unconscious of the flight of time as Tom himself, the dreamer, while the melodies which had so often soothed his spirit, were hovering again about him! What power infused into the fading light, the gathering darkness; the stars that here and there appeared; the evening air, the city's hum and stir, the very chiming of the old church clocks; such exquisite enthralment, that the divinest regions of the earth spread out before their eyes could not have held them captive in a stronger chain!
The shadows deepened; deepened; and the room became quite dark. Still Tom's fingers wandered over the keys of the piano; and still the window had its pair of tenants.
At length, her hand upon his shoulder, and her breath upon his forehead, roused Tom from his reverie.
"Dear me!" he cried, desisting with a start. "I am afraid I have been very inconsiderate and unpolite."
Tom little thought how much consideration and politeness he had shown!
"Sing something to us, my dear," said Tom. "Let us hear your voice. Come!"
John Westlock added his entreaties, with such earnestness that a flinty heart alone could have resisted them. Her's was not a flinty heart. Oh dear no! Quite another thing.
So down she sat, and in a pleasant voice began to sing the ballads Tom loved well. Old rhyming stories, with here and there a pause for a few simple chords, such as a harper might have sounded in the ancient time while looking upward for the current of some half-remembered legend; words of old poets, wedded to such measures that the strain of music might have been the poet's breath, giving utterance and expression to his thoughts; and now a melody so joyous and light-hearted, that the singer seemed incapable of sadness, until in her inconstancy (oh wicked little singer!) she relapsed, and broke the listeners' hearts again:
