"How could he be pleased? They do their best; and I am always proud to hear them. But, my dear friend, it is a frightful noise that drowns my child's soft melody. Englishmen who have travelled among our mountains, tell their countrymen that all our voices are harsh and cackling, guttural and disagreeable. Some may be so, but not all, and in my opinion few of them. I am not a judge of music, but I think my child sings beautifully." "Oh, father, you have spoiled it all. Mr. Cranleigh will expect wonders. And all I can do is so simple; only it sounds nice to me because--because I feel that I mean it." "Then your voice must be of your own tongue. She can sing in English very sweetly; but never with the expression which her native language brings to her. Mr. Cranleigh says he would like best to hear you in your own language, dear; though he won't understand a word of it. That ancient lay of Inkulluk, I like it as well as any. The words are nothing; but the melody has a tinkle like a mountain-stream, which modern music seldom has. We call it the song of the stork, although there is very little about them in it. If you like it, you shall have a prose translation, and perhaps your brother will put it into verse, for you tell me he has even that accomplishment. Now try that simple little song, my dear." The lovely maiden, thus exhorted, smiled as she cast back her hair, and upon the white rise of her breast laid a musical affair of some dark wood, having divers strings and curves. Lute, zither, mandolin, tambourine, lyre, it was none of those, and I knew not, neither cared what it was, only to watch her swift white fingers dancing like snowdrops inspired by the wind, and her lips like rosebuds tremulous. The words were nothing but sounds to me; yet I knew, by the power she gave to them, that whoever could bring them home to her would have no cold-hearted wife to wed. And this is what Harold made of it:-- THE SONG OF THE STORK. "When the veil of the mountains is lifted by Spring, And the voice of the water saith--Winter is past: When the stork from Armenia plies her glad wing, And the ibex lies down, without fear of the blast; With a heart that is warm as the nest of a dove, In the bend of the valley, I wait for my love. "When the splendour of summer makes spangles of snow, And lights with red lilies the gloom of the glen; While the forest is flushed with azalea's glow, And the melody of fountains floats through it again; With a heart that is true to its nest as a dove, On a lawn of sweet roses, I wait for my love.