And he sang it in a tuneful and plaintive tenor, that had power to make rude and ridiculous things pathetic; and Aunt Rebecca thought he was altogether very agreeable.  But it was time she should see what Miss Gertrude was about; and Devereux and Lily were such very old friends that she left them to their devices.

‘I like the river,’ says he; ’it has a soul, Miss Lily, and a character.  There are no river gods, but nymphs.  Look at that river, Miss Lilias; what a girlish spirit.  I wish she would reveal herself; I could lose my heart to her, I believe—­if, indeed, I could be in love with anything, you know.  Look at the river—­is not it feminine? it’s sad and it’s merry, musical and sparkling—­and oh, so deep!  Always changing, yet still the same.  ’Twill show you the trees, or the clouds, or yourself, or the stars; and it’s so clear and so dark, and so sunny, and—­so cold.  It tells everything, and yet nothing.  It’s so pure, and so playful, and so tuneful, and so coy, yet so mysterious and fatal.  I sometimes think, Miss Lilias, I’ve seen this river spirit; and she’s like—­very like you!’

And so he went on; and she was more silent and more a listener than usual.  I don’t know all that was passing in pretty Lilias’s fancy—­in her heart—­near the hum of the waters and the spell of that musical voice.  Love speaks in allegories and a language of signs; looks and tones tell his tale most truly.  So Devereux’s talk held her for a while in a sort of trance, melancholy and delightful.  There must be, of course, the affinity—­the rapport—­the what you please to call it—­to begin with—­it matters not how faint and slender; and then the spell steals on and grows.  See how the poor little woodbine, or the jessamine, or the vine, will lean towards the rugged elm, appointed by Virgil, in his epic of husbandry (I mean no pun) for their natural support—­the elm, you know it hath been said, is the gentleman of the forest:—­see all the little tendrils turn his way silently, and cling, and long years after, maybe, clothe the broken and blighted tree with a fragrance and beauty not its own.  Those feeble feminine plants, are, it sometimes seems to me, the strength and perfection of creation—­strength perfected in weakness; the ivy, green among the snows of winter, and clasping together in its true embrace the loveless ruin; and the vine that maketh glad the heart of man amidst the miseries of life.  I must not be mistaken, though, for Devereux’s talk was only a tender sort of trifling, and Lilias had said nothing to encourage him to risk more; but she now felt sure that Devereux liked her—­that, indeed, he took a deep interest in her—­and somehow she was happy.

And little Lily drew towards the dancers, and Devereux by her side—­not to join in the frolic; it was much pleasanter talking.  But the merry thrum and jingle of the tambourine, and vivacious squeak of the fiddles, and the incessant laughter and prattle of the gay company were a sort of protection.  And perhaps she fancied that within that pleasant and bustling circle, the discourse, which was to her so charming, might be longer maintained.  It was music heard in a dream—­strange and sweet—­and might never come again.