been brought up, with
the music, to chase away heavy memories; or, perhaps, from a hope that
it may soothe those savage ones still dwelling in the bosom of his
child.

Madame Seguin is about to play, and my companion and I go nearer to
listen.

Seguin and Saint Vrain are conversing apart. Adele is still seated
where we left her, silent and abstracted.

The music commences. It is a merry air--a fandango: one of those to
which the Andalusian foot delights to keep time.

Seguin and Saint Vrain have turned. We all stand looking in the face of
Adele. We endeavour to read its expression.

The first notes have startled her from her attitude of abstraction. Her
eyes wander from one to the other, from the instrument to the player,
with looks of wonder--of inquiry.

The music continues. The girl has risen, and, as it mechanically,
approaches the bench where her mother is seated. She crouches down by
the feet of the latter, places her ear close up to the instrument, and
listens attentively. There is a singular expression upon her face.

I look at Seguin. That upon his is not less singular. His eye is fixed
upon the girl's, gazing with intensity. His lips are apart, yet he
seems not to breathe. His arms hang neglected, and he is leaning
forward as if to read the thoughts that are passing within her.

He starts erect again, as though under the impulse of some sudden
resolution.

"Oh, Adele! Adele!" he cries, hurriedly addressing his wife; "oh, sing
that song; that sweet hymn, you remember; you used to sing it to her--
often, often. You remember it, Adele! Look at her. Quick! quick! O
God! Perhaps she may--"

He is interrupted by the music. The mother has caught his meaning, and
with the adroitness of a practised player, suddenly changes the tune to
one of a far different character. I recognise the beautiful Spanish
hymn, "La madre a su hija" (The mother to her child). She sings it,
accompanying her voice with the bandolin. She throws all her energy
into the song until the strain seems inspired. She gives the words with
full and passionate effect--

"Tu duermes, cara nina!
Tu duertnes en la paz.
Los angeles del cielo--
Los angeles guardan, guardan,
Nina mia!--Ca--ra--mi--"

The song was interrupted by a cry--a cry of singular import--uttered by
the girl. The first words of the hymn had caused her to start, and then
to listen, if possible, more attentively than ever. As the song
pr