will you say to me, when you speak of yourself as though you were
a block of wood?"

"The prosy geologist talks pedantically of a granite rock, and is mute
when he sees the flower that blooms above it."

"_Mon Dieu_, M. Dupleisis! I cannot sit by and hear _Chamfort_ so
ruthlessly robbed."

"Mademoiselle, you are unkind. I say nothing complimentary but you cry,
'Stop thief!'"

The lady played a few sparkling bars, and sang. She had a magnificent
voice, but her music, like herself, was studied, faultless, but chilling
as the north wind. It swelled deep and full, in rich, flute-like tones,
now ringing clear and sweet in pure, rippling notes, now quivering low
in waves of enchanting melody. There were soft, gurgling sounds, that
flowed wild and free as a mountain-rivulet. It was brilliant,
bewildering; but the dazzle was like the frozen glitter of an icicle.
Suddenly, a look of unmitigated scorn swept across her face, and the
music ceased.

She eyed Dupleisis for a moment half defiantly, and asked, "Would you
really like to hear me sing?"

Dupleisis answered, earnestly, "Yes."

A plaintive prelude followed, and her voice mingled with it almost
imperceptibly. It was one of those gloomy Spanish ballads, dramatic
rather than harmonious, that poured forth its mournful strains in the
fitful measure of an AEolian harp. There were bursts of pathos that
seemed to echo from her very soul. It was fierce, mocking, passionate;
tender, wicked, terrible. It sank in sobs of melting compassion; it
implored pity and sympathy in words of thrilling entreaty; and then it
rose, cold and calm, in sounds of withering derision and implacable
hate. It trembled, it scorned, it pleaded, it taunted, it struggled, it
hoped, it despaired; and then, as if for the dead, it wailed and died in
a long, helpless cry of sorrow.

Dupleisis sat listening to the dreary history entranced. There was love,
and feeling, and fond womanly devotion; there was refined thought,
gentle pity, and warm generous charity; and there was a neglected heart,
a gloomy, embittered mind, a life lost in utter desolation. The glorious
being whom God had created to cheer and encourage man was a beautiful
statue.

Who would teach that heart to feel again? Who turn to quivering flesh
that rigid marble? Yet the man of iron sat masking his features,
controlling his emotions, with every muscle under his command. It was a
flash of real feeling from a proud, sensitive woman, but it