This time, however, it was another voice—a fuller and richer voice—which sang those words.
Dr. Linister started again when the voice began. He changed color, and his cheek grew pale.
"Heavens!" he murmured. "Are there phantoms in the air? What does it mean? This is the second time—my own song—the foolish old song—my own air—the foolish, tinkling air that they used to like! And the voice—I remember the voice—whose voice is it? I remember the voice—whose voice is it?"
He looked round him again, at the pictures, as if to find among them the face he sought. The pictures showed all the life of the Past; the ball-room with the dancers; the sports of the field; the drive in the afternoon, the ride in the morning; the bevy of girls; the soldiers and the sailors; the streets crowded with people; the vile slums and the picturesque blackguardism of the City—but not the face he wanted. Then he left off looking for the singer, and began to think of the faces before him.
"On every face," he said, "there is unsatisfied desire. Yet they are the happier for that very dissatisfaction. Yes—they are the happier." He paused before a painted group of street children; some were playing over the gutter; some were sitting on door-steps, carrying babies as big as themselves; one was sucking a piece of orange-peel picked up on the pavement; one was gnawing a crust. They were all ragged and half starved. "Yet," said the Arch Physician, "they are happy. But we have no children now. In those days they could paint and draw—and we have lost the Art. Great heavens!" he cried, impatiently, "we have lost every Art. Cruel! cruel!" Then from within there broke upon his ears a strain of music. It was so long since he had heard any
