ge
the stranger with a song. Never had Lucy, who was not a shy girl,--she
was too innocent to be bashful,--felt nervous hitherto in singing before
a stranger; but now she hesitated and faltered, and went through a
whole series of little natural affectations before she complied with
the request. She chose a song composed somewhat after the old English
school, which at that time was reviving into fashion. The song, though
conveying a sort of conceit, was not, perhaps, altogether without
tenderness; it was a favourite with Lucy, she scarcely knew why, and ran
thus:--

LUCY'S SONG.

Why sleep, ye gentle flowers, ah, why,
When tender eve is falling,
And starlight drinks the happy sigh
Of winds to fairies calling?
Calling with low and plaining note,
Most like a ringdove chiding,
Or flute faint-heard from distant boat
O'er smoothest waters gliding.
Lo, round you steals the wooing breeze;
Lo, on you falls the dew!
O sweets, awake, for scarcely these
Can charm while wanting you!
Wake ye not yet, while fast below
The silver time is fleeing?
O heart of mine, those flowers but show
Thine own contented being.
The twilight but preserves the bloom,
The sun can but decay
The warmth that brings the rich perfume
But steals the life away.
O heart, enjoy thy present calm,
Rest peaceful in the shade,
And dread the sun that gives the balm
To bid the blossom fade.

When Lucy ended, the stranger's praise was less loud than either the
doctor's or his lady's; but how far more sweet it was! And for the first
time in her life Lucy made the discovery that eyes can praise as well
as lips. For our part, we have often thought that that discovery is an
epoch in life.

It was now that Mrs. Slopperton declared her thorough conviction that
the stranger himself could sing. He had that about him, she said, which
made her sure of it.

"Indeed, dear madam," said he, with his usual undefinable, half-frank,
half-latent smile, "my voice is but so-so,