When one is playing in the game of life
'Tis wrong to throw away a single card,
Lest by some odd mistake of circumstance
The card despised--if played with dext'rous hand--
Should gain an unexpected victory.

When Basil Beaumont came to think over things, it struck him as somewhat strange that Patience should have voluntarily told him a secret, for the concealment of which she had several excellent reasons. Firstly, she must have had a great struggle with her pride before bringing herself to address the man to whom she owed her ruin. Secondly, on informing Beaumont that Reginald was his son, she must have known there were great chances of him revealing the whole story to the young fellow out of sheer devilry; and thirdly, knowing that Reginald was clever, she must have expected his penniless father would try and make money out of his talents.

Beaumont was too astute a reader of character to blind himself to the fact that Patience must have been aware of these three things, hence his wonder at her telling him what she did not want known. But the artist, clever as he was, still lacked discernment to recognise the full subtlety of a woman's instincts, else he would have readily seen that Patience feared his ignorance of the real state of affairs more than his knowledge.

She heard that he was in the village and acquainted with Reginald Blake, and she was also aware that he was coming to the Grange to paint Squire Garsworth's portrait. Had he seen her there he would have made inquiries concerning her position, and among other things would doubtless have ascertained that she was Reginald's nurse. Knowing that she had left London with her own son, such a weak story as she told about Blake's parentage would not have imposed upon him for a moment, and by putting two and two together he would have discovered everything, with the natural result that he would have recognised Blake as his own child, sought him out and told him the whole story of his birth.

In order to avert such a calamity, she determined to boldly take the bull by the horns and tell Beaumont everything, at the same time warning him that she would embitter Reginald's mind against him should he dare to speak out. The result of her interview in the churchyard was as she expected. Beaumont was too cunning to risk the dislike of his own son, and thereby lose any chance of influencing him for his own ends, so he quietly acquiesced in the line of conduct she laid down. Patience returned to the Grange thoroughly satisfied that she had disarmed Beaumont by pointing out how she could turn Reginald against him, so the astute man of the world, abandoning his desire to play the part of a long-lost father, determined to wait for a few weeks and see how things turned out. Then he intended to let his plans be guided to a large extent by circumstances, and had no doubt that he would then be able to out-man[oe]uvre Patience by a little dexterous generalship.

A few days after his curious meeting with Patience in the churchyard, Beaumont set out for a long walk in the morning, as he wanted to think over the aspect of things, and pedestrianism always stimulated his brain. It was a bright, fresh morning, with a deeply blue sky, a cheerful sun shining and a keen, fresh wind blowing across the common on to which he strolled. The gorse was in bloom, and every breath of wind brought the odour of its peach-like scent to his nostrils. How often, in his Bohemian life had that odour recalled the wide, bare common with its miles of gorse-covered ground, and made him long half regretfully for the quiet country village where his youth had been passed.

But now that the common was actually before him, by some curious contradiction of nature he did not feel the least regret or longing for his youth, but on the contrary strolled over the waste ground, hatching all kinds of plots and plans in his busy brain.

All at once, as he stood on the edge of a gentle slope, where the ground was hollowed out like a cup and surrounded by the dark green of the gorse with its golden blossoms, he saw a woman seated on a grassy bank, apparently basking in the sun. Her hands were lying idly in her lap, and with her face turned upward to the bright sunshine, she was drinking in the sweet, keen air which swept over the wild moorland. Beaumont saw that it was Cecilia Mosser who sat there, and for a moment half envied the blind girl in spite of her great sorrow, for her pleasant enjoyment of nature.

"She looks like the Goddess of Desolation," murmured Beaumont, as he descended the slope, "or some eyeless Destiny that sees nothing, yet governs all!"

Lightly as he walked over the soft, green grass, the blind girl heard the sound of his muffled footsteps, and turned her face in the direction from whence she heard them come, with a questioning look on her placid face.

"How do you do, Miss Mosser?" said Beaumont, tranquilly. "I was taking a stroll on the common, and saw you sitting here alone, like the Genius of Solitude."

"I often come here," observed Cecilia, placidly, folding her hands. "This is a favourite spot of mine--I know every inch of the way."

"You are not afraid of losing yourself?"

"I was at first," said the blind girl, with a quiet laugh, "but I soon got to know my way about. I could find my way here on the darkest night."

"Like Bulwer Lytton's Nydia," remarked Beaumont, idly casting himself down on the grass.

"Yes. Like her, it is always darkest night with me," replied Cecilia, with a sigh. "Still, I have my compensations, for I can hear many sounds that very likely escape the notice of you fortunate people who can see."

"What kind of sounds?" asked the artist, more for the sake of making a remark than because he cared to know.

"The flowing of the river, the whispering of the wind, the humming of the bees and the rustle of the gorse--they all seem to me to have human voices and tell me stories. I can well understand those old legends where mortals heard voices everywhere, and understood the sayings of the waves and the melancholy voice of the night winds."

"As Siegfried understood the language of birds," said Beaumont. "You require no dragon's blood to teach you that, I suppose?"

"I don't know what you mean, exactly," replied Cecilia, in a puzzled tone, for she had never heard of the Niebelung's Ring, "but the birds do speak to me--that is, I fancy they do--I love to hear the cuckoo and the throstle, then the lark--ah! the lark is the most charming of all!"

"So the poets think. There is no bird who has inspired more poetry than the lark--from Shakespeare down to Tennyson--and I suppose you put all your fancies into music?"

"Yes, I often try to do so, but I don't think anyone understands the meaning but myself," answered Cecilia, with a faint smile. "You know the English are not a music loving nation."

"That depends on how you define music," said the artist, cynically. "The great B. P. like something with a tune in it, but when they hear anything they can't understand, such as Bach and Spohr, they admire it all the same. I'm afraid the B. P.'s a humbug."

"You are terribly severe," said Cecilia, laughing. "I hope you won't criticise our concert?"

&quo............