King Midas: A Romance | Page 5

the
news about myself."
"Except," added Helen, "that you walked twelve miles this glorious
Saturday morning to welcome me home, which was beautiful. And of
course you'll stay over Sunday, now you're here; I can invite you
myself, you know, for I've come home to take the reins of government.
You never saw such a sight in your life as my poor father has made of
our house; he's got the parlor all full of those horrible theological works
of his, just as if God had never made anything beautiful! And since I've
been away that dreadful Mrs. Dale has gotten complete charge of the
church, and she's one of those creatures that wouldn't allow you to burn
a candle in the organ loft; and father never was of any use for
quarreling about things." (Helen's father, the Reverend Austin Davis,
was the rector of the little Episcopal church in the town of Oakdale just
across the fields.) "I only arrived last night," the girl prattled on,
venting her happiness in that way instead of singing; "but I hunted up
two tallow candles in the attic, and you shall see them in church
to-morrow. If there's any complaint about the smell, I'll tell Mrs. Dale
we ought to have incense, and she'll get so excited about that that I'll

carry the candles by default. I'm going to institute other reforms
also,--I'm going to make the choir sing in tune!"
"If you will only sing as you were singing just now, nobody will hear
the rest of the choir," vowed the young man, who during her remarks
had never taken his eyes off the girl's radiant face.
Helen seemed not to notice it, for she had been arranging the marigolds;
now she was drying them with her handkerchief before fastening them
upon her dress.
"You ought to learn to sing yourself," she said while she bent her head
down at that task. "Do you care for music any more than you used to?"
"I think I shall care for it just as I did then," was the answer, "whenever
you sing it."
"Pooh!" said Helen, looking up from her marigolds; "the idea of a
dumb poet anyway, a man who cannot sing his own songs! Don't you
know that if you could sing and make yourself gloriously happy as I
was just now, and as I mean to be some more, you could write poetry
whenever you wish."
"I can believe that," said Arthur.
"Then why haven't you ever learned? Our English poets have all been
ridiculous creatures about music, any how; I don't believe there was
one in this century, except Browning, that really knew anything about it,
and all their groaning and pining for inspiration was nothing in the
world but a need of some music; I was reading the 'Palace of Art' only
the other day, and there was that 'lordly pleasure house' with all its
modern improvements, and without a sound of music. Of course the
poor soul had to go back to the suffering world, if it were only to hear a
hand-organ again."
"That is certainly a novel theory," admitted the young poet. "I shall
come to you when I need inspiration."
"Come and bring me your songs," added the girl, "and I will sing them
to you. You can write me a poem about that brook, for one thing. I was
thinking just as I came down the road that if I were a poet I should have
beautiful things to say to that brook. Will you do it for me?"
"I have already tried to write one," said the young man, hesitatingly.
"A song?" asked Helen.
"Yes."
"Oh, good! And I shall make some music for it; will you tell it to me?"

"When?"
"Now, if you can remember it," said Helen. "Can you?"
"If you wish it," said Arthur, simply; "I wrote it two or three months
ago, when the country was different from now."
He fumbled in his pocket for some papers, and then in a low tone he
read these words to the girl:
AT MIDNIGHT
The burden of the winter The year haa borne too long, And oh, my
heart is weary For a springtime song!
The moonbeams shrink unwelcomed From the frozen lake; Of all the
forest voices There is but one awake
I seek thee, happy streamlet That murmurest on thy way, As a child in
troubled slumber Still dreaming of its play;
I ask thee where in thy journey Thou seeest so fair a sight, That thou
hast joy and singing All through the winter night.
Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said, "I think that is
beautiful, Arthur; but it is not what I want."
"Why not?" he asked.
"I should have liked it