ose."

"A subdued monotone of coloring has ever been a characteristic of our
family, Theodore. But I do not quite understand your story. Who is this
person, and was she alone on the beach?"

"There were others, but I did not notice them; I only looked at her."

"And she sang?"

"O aunt, so heavenly sweet--so strange, so new her song, that I was
carried away up into the blue sky as if on strong wings--I seemed to
float in melody. But I can not talk of it; it takes my breath away, even
in thought!"

Miss Elisabetha sat perplexed.

"Was it one of our _romanzas_, Theodore, or a ballad?" she said, running
over the list in her mind.

"It was something I never heard before," replied Doro, in a low voice;
"it was not like anything else--not even the mocking-bird, for, though
it went on and on, the same strain floated back into it again and again;
and the mocking-bird, you know, has a light and fickle soul. Aunt, I can
not tell you what it was like, but it seemed to tell me a new story of a
new world."

"How many beats had it to the measure?" asked Miss Elisabetha, after a
pause.

"I do not know," replied the boy dreamily.

"You do not know! All music is written in some set time, Theodore. At
least, you can tell me about the words. Were they French?"

"No."

"Nor English?"

"No."

"What then?"

"I know not; angel-words, perhaps.

"Did she speak to you?"

"Yes," replied Doro, clasping his hands fervently. "She asked me if I
liked the song, and I said, 'Lady, it is of the angels.' Then she
smiled, and asked my name, and I told her,'Doro'--"

"You should have said, 'Theodore,'" interrupted Miss Elisabetha; "do I
not always call you so?"

"And she said it was a lovely name; and could I sing? I took her guitar,
and sang to her--"

"And she praised your method, I doubt not?"

"She said, 'Oh, what a lovely voice!' and she touched my hair with her
little hands, and I--I thought I should die, aunt, but I only fell at
her feet."

"And where--where is this person now?" said the perplexed maiden,
catching at something definite.

"She has gone--gone! I stood and watched the little flag on the mast
until I could see it no more. She has gone! Pity me, aunt, dear aunt.
What shall I do? How shall I live?"

The boy broke into sobs, and would say no more. Miss Elisabetha was
strangely stirred; here was a case beyond her rules; what should she do?
Having no precedent to guide her, she fell back into her old belief