Selecting from the canterbury some old family ditties, that in years gone by had been played and sung by her mother, Elfride sat down to the pianoforte, and began, ''Twas on the evening of a winter's day,' in a pretty contralto voice.
'Do you like that old thing, Mr.Smith ?' she said at the end.
'Yes, I do much,' said Stephen--words he would have uttered, and sincerely, to anything on earth, from glee to requiem, that she might have chosen.
'You shall have a little one by De Leyre, that was given me by a young French lady who was staying at Endelstow House: '"Je l'ai plante, je l'ai vu naitre, Ce beau rosier ou les oiseaux," &c.; and then I shall want to give you my own favourite for the very last, Shelley's "When the lamp is shattered," as set to music by my poor mother.

I so much like singing to anybody who REALLY cares to hear me.' Every woman who makes a permanent impression on a man is usually recalled to his mind's eye as she appeared in one particular scene, which seems ordained to be her special form of manifestation throughout the pages of his memory.

As the patron Saint has her attitude and accessories in mediaeval illumination, so the sweetheart may be said to have hers upon the table of her true Love's fancy, without which she is rarely introduced there except by effort; and this though she may, on further acquaintance, have been observed in many other phases which one would imagine to be far more appropriate to love's young dream.
Miss Elfride's image chose the form in which she was beheld during these minutes of singing, for her permanent attitude of visitation to Stephen's eyes during his sleeping and waking hours in after days.
The profile is seen of a young woman in a pale gray silk dress with trimmings of swan's-down, and opening up from a point in front, like a waistcoat without a shirt; the cool colour contrasting admirably with the warm bloom of her neck and face.

The furthermost candle on the piano comes immediately in a line with her head, and half invisible itself, forms the accidentally frizzled hair into a nebulous haze of light, surrounding her crown like an aureola.

Her hands are in their place on the keys, her lips parted, and trilling forth, in a tender diminuendo, the closing words of the sad apostrophe: 'O Love, who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier!' Her head is forward a little, and her eyes directed keenly upward to the top of the page of music confronting her.