anting quality that thrills the very soul of the listener with its
heavenly vibrations. Such a voice was that of Isidore de Beaujardin,
and the instruction he had received from the best masters at Paris
enabled him to use it with uncommon taste and skill. He was just
concluding an air of Stradella's, in which the melody and
instrumentation alike were perfect, and in which a simple yet stately
grandeur alternated with the most touching plaintiveness, when he
became aware that some one near to him was sobbing violently. It was
not Marguerite, that was certain, though a tear did just then drop on
the hand that touched the harpsichord so charmingly. He turned in some
surprise, and there kneeling beside him, with her face buried in her
hands, he beheld a young girl whom, although her features were
concealed from him, he recognised at once; it was Amoahmeh. Even as
Isidore ceased, the girl's emotion utterly overpowered her, and she
burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. Marguerite rose hastily,
while at the same moment Madame de Rocheval entered the room, and with
the assistance of a domestic they carried Amoahmeh to an adjoining
apartment, where, as Isidore could plainly hear, the strange and
distressing paroxysm continued unabated notwithstanding every effort to
soothe and calm the troubled spirit.

Presently Marguerite returned. "It is a most singular thing," said
she. "This poor Indian girl was found in an exhausted and fainting
state on the steps of our house last evening some time after you had
left. Madame de Rocheval had her brought in and attended to, but when
she revived and had somewhat recovered we found that she had evidently
lost her reason. 'Some one,' she said, 'had told her where they were,
but that she had forgotten, and had come to pray of him to tell her
once again.' We could not understand what she meant. Madame de
Rocheval sent for the doctor to consult him as to what could be done
for her, but we suddenly missed her, and saw no more of her until she
reappeared just now in this strange way."

"Poor child!" exclaimed Isidore, greatly moved. "She is no stranger to
me; indeed, once at least, if not twice, I have owed my life to her.
But it is a long story, and I must not keep you from a holy duty.
To-morrow you shall hear all. In the meantime I know it is not needful
for me to commend this unfortunate and afflicted one to your
compassionate care."

On reaching his apartments, Isidore