What from?
Was it from a ghostly vision of the last time she had sung it--that is properly, to a piano-forte accompaniment, played by fingers that had afterward caught hold of _her_ trembling fingers, and been a living comment on the song?
It was that exquisite one from Handel's "Acis and Galatea:" _"Love in her eyes sits playing, And sheds delicious death; Love on her lips is straying, And warbling in her breath."_ Probably never was there a melody which more perfectly illustrated that sort of love, the idealization of fancy and feeling, with just a glimmer of real passion quivering through it--the light cast in advance by the yet unrisen day.
"Not that song, Arthur.

It is rather difficult besides, Papa might not care to hear it." "Papa might if he were tried," said Dr.Grey, smiling, "Why not do to please me what you do to please the children ?" So Christian sang at once--ay, and that very song.

She faced it.

She determined she would, with all the ghosts of the past that hovered round it.

And soon she found how, thus faced, as says that other lovely song of Handel's, which she had learned at the same time: _"The wandering shadows, ghostly pale, All troop to their infernal jail: Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave."_ Her ghosts slipped one by one into the grave of the past.