ly. "Mr. Calvert
is a very prodigy of accomplishments!"

"Far from it!" returned Mr. Calvert, good-naturedly. "'Tis but a jest of
Henri's. Indeed, Madame, I am nothing of a musician."

"He may not be a musician, but he has a voice as beautiful as Garat's,
though I know 'tis heresy to compare anyone with that idol of Paris,"
said Beaufort, joining the group at that instant. "Dost thou remember
that pretty ballad that thou sangst at Monticello, Ned?" he asked,
turning to Calvert. "Indeed, Madame, I think 'twas of you he sang," he
added, smiling mischievously at Madame de St. Andre.

"What is this?" demanded Adrienne, imperiously. "Is this another jest?
But I must hear this song," she went on, impatiently, and with a touch
of curiosity.

"'Twas my favorite 'Lass with the Delicate Air,'" said Mr. Jefferson,
smiling. "You must sing it for us, Ned, and I will play for you as I
used to do." He took from its case a violin lying upon the harpsichord
and, leaning over it, he began softly the quaint accompaniment that
sustains so perfectly the whimsical melodies and surprising cadences of
Dr. Arne's ballad.

Though few of Mr. Calvert's audience could understand the sentiment of
his song, all listened with admiration to the voice, which still
retained much of its boyish sweetness and thrilling pathos. Amid the
applause which followed the conclusion of the song, Madame d'Azay left
the lansquenet table and appeared at the door of the salon.

"Charming," she cried. "But I don't know your English, so sing us
something in French, Monsieur, that I may applaud the sentiment as well
as the voice."

Mr. Calvert bowed with as good grace as he could, being secretly much
dissatisfied at having to thus exploit his small talent for the benefit
of the company, and, seating himself at the harpsichord, began a
plaintive little air in a minor key, to which he had fitted the words of
a song he had but lately read and greatly admired. Being, as he had
said, nothing of a musician, the delicate accompaniment of the song was
quite beyond him, but having a true ear for accord and a firm, light
touch, he improvised a not unpleasing melody that fitted perfectly the
poem. 'Twas the "Consolation" of Malherbe, and, as Calvert sang, the
tenderness and melancholy beauty of both words and music struck the
whole company into silence:

"'Mais elle etait du monde ou les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin,
Et, rose, elle a vecu ce que vivent les