The spinster complied, and stood erect and stiff, with her arms folded. Ina fixed her deep eyes on her, playing a liquid prelude all the time, then swelled her chest and sung the old Venetian cauzonet, “Il pescatore de'll' onda.” It is a small thing, but there is no limit to the genius of song. The Klosking sung this trifle with a voice so grand, sonorous, and sweet, and, above all, with such feeling, taste, and purity, that somehow she transported her hearers to Venetian waters, moonlit, and thrilled them to the heart, while the great glass chandelier kept ringing very audibly, so true, massive, and vibrating were her tones in that large, empty room. At the first verse that cross-grained spinster, with real likes and dislikes, put a bony hand quietly before her eyes. At the last, she made three strides, as a soldier marches, and fell all of a piece, like a wooden _mannequin,_ on the singer's neck. “Take my piano,” she sobbed, “for you have taken the heart out of my body.” Ina returned her embrace, and did not conceal her pleasure. “I am very proud of such a conquest,” said she. From that hour Ina was the landlady's pet. The room and piano were made over to her, and, being in a great fright at what she had undertaken, she studied and practiced her part night and day. She made Ashmead call a rehearsal next day, and she came home from it wretched and almost hysterical. She summoned her slave Ashmead; he stood before her with an air of hypocritical submission. “The Flute was not at rehearsal, sir,” said she, severely, “nor the Oboe, nor the Violoncello.” “Just like 'em,” said Ashmead, tranquilly. “The tenor is a quavering stick. He is one of those who think that an unmanly trembling of the voice represents every manly passion.” “Their name is legion.” “The soprano is insipid. And they are all imperfect--contentedly imperfect, How can people sing incorrectly? It is like lying.” “That is what makes it so common--he! he!” “I do not desire wit, but consolation. I believe you are Mephistopheles himself in disguise; for ever since I signed that diabolical compact you made me, I have been in a state of terror, agitation, misgiving, and misery--and I thank and bless you for it; for these thorns and nettles they lacerate me, and make me live. They break the dull, lethargic agony of utter desolation.” Then, as her nerves were female nerves, and her fortitude female fortitude, she gave way, for once, and began to cry patiently. Ashmead the practical went softly away and left her, as we must leave her for a time, to battle her business with one hand and her sorrow with the other. CHAPTER II. IN the Hotel Russie, at Frankfort, there was a grand apartment, lofty, spacious, and richly furnished, with a broad balcony overlooking the Platz, and roofed, so to speak, with colored sun-blinds, which softened the glare of the Rhineland sun to a rosy and mellow light.