atmosphere. As Alfred gazed on the
long, dark, silky fringes resting on those warmly tinted cheeks, he
thought he had never seen any human creature so superbly handsome.

"Nothing but music can satisfy us after such dancing," said Mr.
Fitzgerald. She looked up to him with a smile; and Alfred thought the
rising of those dark eyelashes surpassed their downcast expression, as
the glory of morning sunshine excels the veiled beauty of starlight.

"Shall I accompany you while you sing, 'How brightly breaks the
morning'?" asked she.

"That always sings itself into my heart, whenever you raise your eyes
to mine," replied he, in a low tone, as he handed her to the piano.

Together they sang that popular melody, bright and joyful as sunrise
on a world of blossoms. Then came a Tyrolese song, with a double
voice, sounding like echoes from the mountains. This was followed
by some tender, complaining Russian melodies, novelties which Mr.
Fitzgerald had brought on a preceding visit. Feeling they were too
much engrossed with each other, she said politely, "Mr. King has not
yet chosen any music."

"The moon becomes visible through the curtains," replied he. "Perhaps
you will salute her with 'Casta Diva.'"

"That is a favorite with us," she replied. "Either Flora or I sing it
almost every moonlight night."

She sang it in very pure Italian. Then turning round on the
music-stool she looked at her father, and said, "Now, _Papasito
querido_, what shall I sing for you?"

"You know, dear, what I always love to hear," answered he.

With gentle touch, she drew from the keys a plaintive prelude, which
soon modulated itself into "The Light of other Days." She played and
sang it with so much feeling, that it seemed the voice of memory
floating with softened sadness over the far-off waters of the past.
The tune was familiar to Alfred, but it had never sung itself into his
heart, as now. "I felt as I did in Italy, listening to a vesper-bell
sounding from a distance in the stillness of twilight," said he,
turning toward his host.

"All who hear Rosabella sing notice a bell in her voice," rejoined her
father.

"Undoubtedly it is the voice of a belle," said Mr. Fitzgerald.

Her father, without appearing to notice the commonplace pun, went on
to say, "You don't know, Mr. King, what tricks she can play with her
voice. I call her a musical ventriloquist. If you want to hear the
bell to perfection, ask her to sing 'Toll the bell for lovely N