a contralto voice, but such a contralto, too, that either Nature or culture permitted the loftiest flights; the soprano touches were vivid and vibrating as the topmost tones of my violin. While the fragrance yet fanned my soul, the flower shut up. She ceased singing and came to me. "Do you like that little song? It is the Chevalier's." "A Sunday song," observed Josephine, as I mentioned. "A Sunday song!" I cried, and started. "I have not heard a word!" "Oh!" she said, not regretfully, but with excitement, "you must then hear it again; and Josephine shall sing it, that you may not think of my voice instead of the song." I had not time to remonstrate, nor had I the right. The child began quite composedly, still holding her doll. She had a wonderful voice. But what have I to do with voices? I mean style. Josephine's voice was crude as a green whortleberry; its sadness was sour, its strength harsh; though a voice shrill and small as the cricket's chirp, with scarcely more music. But she sang divinely; she sang like a cherub before the Great White Throne. The manner was her sister's; the fragrance another, a peculiar wood-like odor, as from moss and evanescent wild-flowers, if I may so compare, as then it struck me. I listened to the words this while, to the melody,--the rush of melodies; for in that composer's slightest effect each part is a separate soul, the counterpoint a subtle, fiery chain imprisoning the soul in bliss. Ineffable as was that air,--ineffable as is every air of his,--I longed to be convinced it had been put together by a _man_. I could not, and I cannot to this hour, associate anything material with strains of his. When Josephine concluded, I was about to beg for more; but the other left her harp, and kissing her little care, brought her with herself to the couch where she had quitted me. How strange was the sweetness, how sweet the change in her manner now! "How pale you look!" said she; "I shall give you some wine. I can feel for you, if you are delicate in health, for I am so myself; and it is so sad sometimes." "No wine, please; I have had wine, and am never the better for it. I believe I was born pale, and shall never look anything else." "I like you pale, if it is not that you are delicate." "I think I am pretty strong; I can work hard, and do." "Do not!" she said, putting her loveliest hand on my hair, and turning my face to hers, "do not, _lieber_, work hard,--not too hard." "And why not? for I am sure you do." "That is the very reason I would have you not do so. I _must_ work hard." "But if you are delicate, Fräulein Cerinthia?" "God will take care of me; I try to serve him. None have to answer for themselves as musicians." She suddenly ceased, passed one hand over her face. She did not stir, but I heard her sigh; she arose, and looked from the window; she sat down again, as if undecided. "Can I do anything for you?" I asked.