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A soft rushing noise of wind answered his adjuration This was followed by a burst of music, transcendently lovely, but unlike any music I had ever heard There were sounds of delicate and entrancing tenderness such as no instru of clear and tender tone, and of infinite purity such as no human voices could be capable of I listened, perplexed, alar through the wonderful air-symphonies--a melody like a flower, fresh and perfect Instinctively I touched the organ and began to play it; I found I could produce it note for note I forgot all fear inrapture Gradually I beca sloay; fainter and fainter they grew--softer--farther--and finally ceased But the e of notes I had followed out--reain with feverish eagerness lest it should escape otten the presence of Heliobas But a touch on my shoulder roused me I looked up and ard A shiver ran through, me, and I felt bewildered

"Have I lost it?" I asked

"Lost what?" he demanded

"The tune I heard--the harmonies"

"No," he replied; "at least I think not But if you have, no matter You will hear others Why do you look so distressed?"

"It is lovely," I said wistfully, "all that ret filled my eyes "Oh, if it were only mine--my very own composition!"

Heliobas ss to anyone Yours? hat can you really call your own? Every talent you have, every breath you draw, every drop of blood flowing in your veins, is lent to you only; you o, it is a bad sign of poet, painter, or h to call his work his own It never was his, and never will be It is planned by a higher intelligence than his, only he happens to be the hired labourer chosen to carry out the conception; a sort of mechanic in whom boastfulness looks absurd; as absurd as if one of the stone at the cornice of a cathedral were to vaunt hiner of the whole edifice And when a work, any work, is cos to the age and the people for who to future ages and future peoples So far, and only so far, music is your own But are you convinced? or do you think you have been drea all that you heard just now?"