music, and sang, without much power, but with a great deal of sweetness.
We were not permitted by her to select any but light-hearted melodies; and
all the Operas of Mozart were called into service, that we might choose the
most exhilarating of his airs. Among the other transcendant attributes of
Mozart's music, it possesses more than any other that of appearing to come
from the heart; you enter into the passions expressed by him, and are
transported with grief, joy, anger, or confusion, as he, our soul's master,
chooses to inspire. For some time, the spirit of hilarity was kept up; but,
at length, Perdita receded from the piano, for Raymond had joined in the
trio of "Taci ingiusto core," in Don Giovanni, whose arch entreaty was
softened by him into tenderness, and thrilled her heart with memories of
the changed past; it was the same voice, the same tone, the self-same
sounds and words, which often before she had received, as the homage of
love to her--no longer was it that; and this concord of sound with its
dissonance of expression penetrated her with regret and despair. Soon after
Idris, who was at the harp, turned to that passionate and sorrowful air in
Figaro, "Porgi, amor, qualche risforo," in which the deserted Countess
laments the change of the faithless Almaviva. The soul of tender sorrow is
breathed forth in this strain; and the sweet voice of Idris, sustained by
the mournful chords of her instrument, added to the expression of the
words. During the pathetic appeal with which it concludes, a stifled sob
attracted our attention to Perdita, the cessation of the music recalled her
to herself, she hastened out of the hall--I followed her. At first, she
seemed to wish to shun me; and then, yielding to my earnest questioning,
she threw herself on my neck, and wept aloud:--"Once more," she cried,
"once more on your friendly breast, my beloved brother, can the lost
Perdita pour forth her sorrows. I had imposed a law of silence on myself;
and for months I have kept it. I do wrong in weeping now, and greater wrong
in giving words to my grief. I will not speak! Be it enough for you to know
that I am miserable--be it enough for you to know, that the painted veil
of life is rent, that I sit for ever shrouded in darkness and gloom, that
grief is my sister, everlasting lamentation my mate!"

I endeavoured to console her; I did not question her! but I caressed her,
assured her of my deepest affection and my intense interest in t