ls
"a-weeping and a-weeping till she weeps her life away." The boy who
listens is a slender stripling, with brown eyes, and a mass of brown
curls tossed back from a broad, low forehead; he has the outlines of a
Greek, and a dark, silken fringe just borders his boyish mouth. He is
dressed in a simple suit of dark-blue cotton jacket and trousers, the
broad white collar turned down, revealing his round young throat; on his
slender feet he wears snowy stockings, knitted by Miss Elisabetha's own
hands, and over them a low slipper of untanned leather. His brown hands
are clasped over one knee, the taper fingers and almond-shaped nails
betraying the artistic temperament--a sign which is confirmed by the
unusually long, slender line of the eyebrows, curving down almost to the
cheeks.

"A-weeping and a-weeping till she weeps her life away," sang Miss
Elisabetha, her voice in soft _diminuendo_ to express the mournful end
of the Proud Ladye. Then, closing the piano carefully, and adjusting the
tulip-bordered cover, she extinguished the candles, and the two went out
under the open arches, where chairs stood ready for them nightly. The
tide-water river--the Warra--flowed by, the moon-path shining goldenly
across it; up in the north palmettos stood in little groups alongshore,
with the single feathery pine-trees of the barrens coming down to meet
them; in the south shone the long lagoon, with its low islands, while
opposite lay the slender point of the mainland, fifteen miles in length,
the Warra on one side, and on the other the ocean; its white sand-ridges
gleamed in the moonlight, and the two could hear the sound of the waves
on its outer beach.

"It is so beautiful," said the boy, his dreamy eyes following the silver
line of the lagoon.

"Yes," replied Miss Elisabetha, "but we have no time to waste, Theodore.
Bring your guitar and let me hear you sing that _romanza_ again;
remember the pauses--three beats to the measure."

Then sweetly sounded forth the soft tenor voice, singing an old French
_romanza_, full of little quavers, and falls, and turns, which the boy
involuntarily slurred into something like naturalness, or gave
_staccato_ as the mocking-bird throws out his shower of short, round
notes. But Miss Elisabetha allowed no such license: had she not learned
that very _romanza_ from Monsieur Vocard himself forty years before? and
had he not carefully taught her every one of those little turns and
quavers? Taking the guit