How differently is the mind attuned to the active, busy world of thought and action when awakened from sleep by any sudden and rude summons to arise and be stirring, and when called into existence by the sweet and silvery notes of softest music stealing over the senses, and while they impart awakening thoughts of bliss and beauty, scarcely dissipating the dreamy influence of slumber! Such was my first thought, as, with closed lids, the thrilling chords of a harp broke upon my sleep and aroused me to a feeling of unutterable pleasure. I turned gently round in my chair and beheld Miss Dashwood. She was seated in a recess of an old-fashioned window; the pale yellow glow of a wintry sun at evening fell upon her beautiful hair, and tinged it with such a light as I have often since then seen in Rembrandt’s pictures; her head leaned upon the harp, and as she struck its chords at random, I saw that her mind was far away from all around her. As I looked, she suddenly started from her leaning attitude, and parting back her curls from her brow, she preluded a few chords, and then sighed forth, rather than sang, that most beautiful of Moore’s melodies,-- “She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps.” Never before had such pathos, such deep utterance of feeling, met my astonished sense; I listened breathlessly as the tears fell one by one down my cheek; my bosom heaved and fell; and when she ceased, I hid my head between my hands and sobbed aloud. In an instant, she was beside me, and placing her hand upon my shoulder, said,-- “Poor dear boy, I never suspected you of being there, or I should not have sung that mournful air.” I started and looked up; and from what I know not, but she suddenly crimsoned to her very forehead, while she added in a less assured tone,-- “I hope, Mr. O’Malley, that you are much better; and I trust there is no imprudence in your being here.” “For the latter, I shall not answer,” said I, with a sickly smile; “but already I feel your music has done me service.” “Then let me sing more for you.” “If I am to have a choice, I should say, Sit down, and let me hear you talk to me. My illness and the doctor together have made wild work of my poor brain; but if you will talk to me--” “Well, then, what shall it be about? Shall I tell you a fairy tale?” “I need it not; I feel I am in one this instant.” “Well, then, what say you to a legend; for I am rich in my stores of them?” “The O’Malleys have their chronicles, wild and barbarous enough without the aid of Thor and Woden.” “Then, shall we chat of every-day matters? Should you like to hear how the election and the canvass go on?” “Yes; of all things.” “Well, then, most favorably. Two baronies, with most unspeakable names, have declared for us, and confidence is rapidly increasing among our party. This I learned, by chance, yesterday; for papa never permits us to know anything of these matters,--not even the names of the candidates.”