es of the sky, like the smiles and tears of infancy, excite without
weariness, and while they engage our sympathies, they fatigue not our
compassion.

Partly lost in thought as I looked upon the fair and varied scene before
me, now turning to the pages of the book upon the breakfast-table, the
hours of the morning passed quickly over, and it was already beyond noon. I
was startled from my revery by sounds which I could scarcely trust my
ears to believe real. I listened again, and thought I could detect them
distinctly. It seemed as though some one were rapidly running over the keys
of a pianoforte, essaying with the voice to follow the notes, and sometimes
striking two or three bold and successive chords; then a merry laugh would
follow, and drown all other sounds. "What can it be?" thought I. "There is,
to be sure, a pianoforte in the large drawing-room; but then, who would
venture upon such a liberty as this? Besides, who is capable of it? There,
it can be no inexperienced performer gave that shake; my worthy housekeeper
never accomplished that!" So saying, I jumped from the breakfast-table,
and set off in the direction of the sound. A small drawing-room and the
billiard-room lay between me and the large drawing-room; and as I traversed
them, the music grew gradually louder. Conjecturing that, whoever it might
be, the performance would cease on my entrance, I listened for a few
moments before opening the door. Nothing could be more singular, nothing
more strange, than the effect of those unaccustomed sounds in that silent
and deserted place. The character of the music, too, contributed not
a little to this; rapidly passing from grave to gay, from the melting
softness of some plaintive air to the reckless hurry and confusion of an
Irish jig, the player seemed, as it were, to run wild through all the
floating fancies of his memory; now breaking suddenly off in the saddest
cadence of a song, the notes would change into some quaint, old-fashioned
crone, in which the singer seemed so much at home, and gave the queer
drollery of the words that expression of archness so eminently the
character of certain Irish airs. "But what the deuce is this?" said I, as,
rattling over the keys with a flowing but brilliant finger, she,--for
it was unquestionably a woman,--with a clear and sweet voice, broken by
laughter, began to sing the words of Mr. Bodkin's song, "The Man for
Galway." When she had finished the last verse, her hand strayed