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282 "With a view to appearing in opera?"

"O, no," exclaimed Hilda, blushing; "I have no such lofty ambition. I only want to sing a little better than I do—to amuse my brother."

"That is a very limited horizon."

"And for my own pleasure in good music."

"I see. Art for art's sake. There are very few nowadays who care to work for art in the abstract. I shall be very proud of such a pupil."

Hilda's fresh young face—fresh in its youthfulness, despite the settled sadness in the eyes—her blushes and simplicity, had fascinated the gray-headed singing-master. Louise Duprez had hinted at Hilda's story—a broken engagement, a girl's first sorrow. He had been told that his new pupil was an English girl of good family, brought up in a remote province, inexperienced, pure-minded; and he who had for the last forty years been steeped in the vanity, vices, and falsehoods of the great garish city felt his heart drawn towards this gentle girl, with her faint perfume of well-bred rusticity.

"You have a very fine voice, my dear child, and it is a great pity you are not obliged to earn your own living," he said, smiling at her, as he rose from the piano. "I shall expect you to sing me that scena in first-rate style next Wednesday."

be on the very threshold of Paradise, within the sound of celestial birds and the perfume of celestial flowers, to be on the point of entering the blissful place, with heart full of hope and pride, and to have the gates suddenly slammed in one's face, and to hear the voice of the angel at the gate crying "Ye cannot enter now," would be perhaps to feel as Bothwell Grahame felt after he had read and read again that calmly worded letter in which Hilda Heathcote renounced him and his love.

His senses staggered under the force of the blow. He cursed Valeria Harborough in the rage of his tortured heart. This was her work. This was the work of that serpent who had beguiled him to forfeit good faith and honour in the past, and who wanted to ruin his life in the present