had a long,
curling plume. She gave me sweet things--oh, so delicious! See, I kept
some," said Doro, bringing out a little package of bonbons. "Some are of
sugar, you see, and some have nuts in them; those are chocolate. Are
they not beautiful?"

"Candies, I think," said Miss Elisabetha, touching them doubtfully with
the end of her quill.

"And she sang for me, aunt, the same angel's music; and then, when I was
afar in heaven, she brought me back with a song about three fishermen
who sailed out into the west; and I wept to hear her, for her voice then
was like the sea when it feels cruel. She saw the tears, and, bidding me
sit by her side, she struck a few chords on her guitar and sang to me of
a miller's daughter who grew so dear, so dear. Do you know it, aunt?"

"A miller's daughter? No; I have no acquaintance with any such person,"
said Miss Elisabetha, considering.

"Wait, I will sing it to you," said Doro, running to bring his guitar;
"she taught it to me herself!"

And then the tenor voice rose in the night air, bearing on the lovely
melody the impassioned words of the poet. Doro sang them with all his
soul, and the ancient maiden felt her heart disquieted within her--why,
she knew not. It seemed as though her boy was drifting away whither she
could not follow.

"Is it not beautiful, aunt? I sang it after her line by line until I
knew it all, and then I sang her all my songs; and she said I must come
and see her the day after to-morrow, and she would give me her picture
and something else. What do you suppose it is, aunt? She would not tell
me, but she smiled and gave me her hand for good-by. And now I can live,
for I am to see her at Martera's house, beyond the convent, the day
after to-morrow, the day after to-morrow--oh, happy day, the day after
to-morrow!"

"Come and eat your dinner, Theodore," said Miss Elisabetha, rising. Face
to face with a new world, whose possibilities she but dimly understood,
and whose language was to her an unknown tongue, she grasped blindly at
the old anchors riveted in years of habit; the boy had always been
something of an epicure in his fastidious way, and one of his favorite
dishes was on the table.

"You may go, Lavinia," she said, as the old slave lingered to see if her
darling enjoyed the dainties; she could not bear that even Viny's
faithful eyes should notice the change, if change there was.

The boy ate nothing.

"I am not hungry, aunt," he said, "I had so many