e, whilst the accompanist went through the short refrain, the soft
sweet melody, the graceful, mournful words rose upon the air:

"Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence,
On n'entendait au loin sur l'onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flots harmonieux!

"O Lac! Rochers muets, grottes, foret obscure,
Vous que le temps epargne, ou qu'il peut rajeunir,
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!

"Que le vent qui gemit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums legers de ton air embaume,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire,
Tout dise: ils ont aime!"

Not a word was lost. Every syllable rang out softly, distinctly, clear
as a bell. We had never heard the song more beautifully sung, or greater
justice done to its pathos. Every shade of sadness in its cadences was
perfectly given. It was only too evident that trouble had helped the
exquisite voice to its sorrowful ring. To us, who were to some extent
behind the scenes of the singer's life, it was difficult to listen
without emotion. We could read between the lines and knew the source of
her inspiration; the deep suffering and misery that lay behind it all.

When the song was over, with its applause that grated, and the singer
had retired, we felt the room had become stifling and unbearable, and
went out into the night air. The streets seemed to have grown small and
contracted. Something must be done for that sad life that would
otherwise soon be lost in every sense of the word; yet apparently we
were powerless to move in the matter. Suddenly, as though by an
inspiration, we thought of the old canon, so full of sympathy and human
kindness. If there could be any possible way of escape, he was the one
to suggest it; and we determined to lay the whole case before him.

Thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the
river. The night was clear and calm; the stars hung in the sky: the
moon, brilliant and silvery, was rising behind El Pilar, showing up in
magic outlines all the grace of its domes and towers. The old bridge
spanned the stream, whose dark waters flowed rapidly through its seven
arches.

It was a perfect night, a witching scene. Everywhere intense quiet
reigned, absolute stillness and repose. The world might have been a
sleeping paradise, knowing nothing of human suffering. But we had
lear