The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. “I wouldn’t. Mobs were gathered together on the slightest possible pretext; and these tumultuous assemblages, while committing the most outrageous excesses, loudly proclaimed their hatred to the house of Hanover, and their determination to cut off the Protestant succession. Her mouth at half-cock, Melusine stood there staring at him. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. “I will take a carriage,” she said, “and fetch my things. He turned. “I have been training myself to look askance at beautiful things. But it was otherwise with the carpenter. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. Her face expressed nothing. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love.
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