ell.'"

"Do give me that pleasure," said Alfred, persuasively.

She sang the pathetic melody, and with voice and piano imitated to
perfection the slow tolling of a silver-toned bell. After a short
pause, during which she trifled with the keys, while some general
remarks were passing, she turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, who was leaning on
the piano, and said, "What shall I sing for _you_?" It was a simple
question, but it pierced the heart of Alfred King with a strange new
pain. What would he not have given for such a soft expression in those
glorious eyes when she looked at _him_!

"Since you are in a ventriloqual mood," answered Mr. Fitzgerald,
"I should like to hear again what you played the last time I was
here,--Agatha's Moonlight Prayer, from _Der Freyschuetz_."

She smiled, and with voice and instrument produced the indescribably
dreamy effect of the two flutes. It was the very moonlight of sound.

"This is perfectly magical," murmured Alfred. He spoke in a low,
almost reverential tone; for the spell of moonlight was on him, and
the clear, soft voice of the singer, the novelty of her peculiar
beauty, and the surpassing gracefulness of her motions, as she swayed
gently to the music of the tones she produced, inspired him with a
feeling of poetic deference. Through the partially open window came
the lulling sound of a little trickling fountain in the garden, and
the air was redolent of jasmine and orange-blossoms. On the pier-table
was a little sleeping Cupid, from whose torch rose the fragrant
incense of a nearly extinguished _pastille_. The pervasive spirit of
beauty in the room, manifested in forms, colors, tones, and motions,
affected the soul as perfume did the senses. The visitors felt they
had stayed too long, and yet they lingered. Alfred examined the
reclining Cupid, and praised the gracefulness of its outline.

"Cupid could never sleep here, nor would the flame of his torch ever
go out," said Mr. Fitzgerald; "but it is time _we_ were going out."

The young gentlemen exchanged parting salutations with their host and
his daughters, and moved toward the door. But Mr. Fitzgerald paused on
the threshold to say, "Please play us out with Mozart's 'Good Night.'"

"As organists play worshippers out of the church," added Mr. King.

Rosabella bowed compliance, and, as they crossed the outer threshold,
they heard the most musical of voices singing Mozart's beautiful
little melody, "Buona Notte, amato bene." The you