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"Still, weeks and years ran on, and my hair began to veil me with its fullness and its length; and now often I heard the word beautiful, spoken of my hair, and beautiful, spoken of myself. They would not say the word openly to me, but I would by chance overhear them whispering it. The word joyed me with the human feeling of it. They were wrong not to say it openly to me; my joy would have been so much the more assured for the ope
"When he left the house I wept for him to come again. And he did come again. All called him my father now. He came to see me once every month or two; till at last he came not at all; and when I wept and asked for him, they said the word Dead to me. Then the bewilderings of the comings and the goings of the coffins at the large and populous house; these bewilderings came over me. What was it to be dead? What is it to be living? Wherein is the difference between the words Death and Life? Had I been ever dead? Was I living? Let me be still again. Do not speak to me."
And the stepping on the floor above; again it did resume.
"Months ran on; and now I somehow learned that my father had every now and then sent money to the woman to keep me with her in the house; and that no more money had come to her after he was dead; the last pe
"But I was strong, and I was a grown girl now. I said to the woman-Keep me hard at work; let me work all the time, but let me stay with thee. But the other girls were sufficient to do the work; me they wanted not. The farmer looked out of his eyes at me, and the out-lookings of his eyes said plainly to me-Thee we do not want; go from us; thou art one too many; and thou art more than one too many. Then I said to the woman-Hire me out to some one; let me work for some one.-But I spread too wide my little story. I must make an end.
"The woman listened to me, and through her means I went to live at another house, and earned wages there. My work was milking the cows, and making butter, and spi
VI
Entranced, lost, as one wandering bedazzled and amazed among i
"Bring me the guitar!"
Starting from his enchantment, Pierre gazed round the room, and saw the instrument leaning against a corner. Silently he brought it to the girl, and silently sat down again.
"Now listen to the guitar; and the guitar shall sing to thee the sequel of my story; for not in words can it be spoken. So listen to the guitar."
Instantly the room was populous with sounds of melodiousness, and mournfulness, and wonderfulness; the room swarmed with the unintelligible but delicious sounds. The sounds seemed waltzing in the room; the sounds hung pendulous like glittering icicles from the corners of the room; and fell upon him with a ringing silveryness; and were drawn up again to the ceiling, and hung pendulous again, and dropped down upon him again with the ringing silveryness. Fire-flies seemed buzzing in the sounds; summer-lightnings seemed vividly yet softly audible in the sounds.
And still the wild girl played on the guitar; and her long dark shower of curls fell over it, and veiled it; and still, out from the veil came the swarming sweetness, and the utter unintelligibleness, but the infinite significancies of the sounds of the guitar.
"Girl of all-bewildering mystery!" cried Pierre-"Speak to me;-sister, if thou indeed canst be a thing that's mortal-speak to me, if thou be Isabel!"
"Mystery! Mystery! Mystery of Isabel! Mystery! Mystery! Isabel and Mystery!"
Among the waltzings, and the droppings, and the swarmings of the sounds, Pierre now heard the tones above deftly stealing and winding among the myriad serpentinings of the other melody:-deftly stealing and winding as respected the instrumental sounds, but in themselves wonderfully and abandonedly free and bold-bounding and rebounding as from multitudinous reciprocal walls; while with every syllable the hair-shrouded form of Isabel swayed to and fro with a like abandonment, and sudde