At that moment, the soft sound of music stole up through the sleeping air. How deep and rich, yet how delicately modulated, was the voice that sung, In parlors of splendor, though beauty be glancing, Bright mirrors reflecting the fairy forms dancing, In banqueting halls, by the lily cheek glowing, With flush of the wine, in the silver cup flowing, Fair fingers disporting with musical sprite, And stealthily clipping the wings of the night; I’d hie to the home where the roses are dreaming, And Hope, from those eyes, on my spirit is beaming; I’d choose the still moonlight, thro’ vine-lattice stealing, The face that I love, in its beauty revealing. I’d list to the voice that is sweeter by far Than the tones of the lute or the heartless guitar. The accents of love all my spirit are filling With rapture subduing, yet blissful and thrilling. Alas! the kind minutes, unkindly are speeding, For joy or for sorrow, unstaying, unheeding, Oh! dearest, mine own one, wherever may be This _presence_, my spirit ne’er parteth from thee. The last words melted away in the most liquid melody. “Ah! he will sing her heart away!” thought Catharine, as the magical tone died, echo-like. “How ravishingly-sweet that was! and how adoringly Clara loves music!” She sat down and leaned her head upon her hand, thinking anxiously; then suddenly taking her pencil, wrote these words: “Dear Clara,--Listen kindly, I entreat you, to a few words, which nothing but the most anxious solicitude for your interest could induce me to intrude upon you. “Are you sure that your father, that your _mother_ would approve so great an intimacy with one so much a stranger as Mr. Brentford? Be chary of your heart, I implore you. He may be all his very prepossessing appearance seems to claim, but remember, you do not know him. “Forgive these suggestions, at once so unwelcome and so reluctant, and believe that you have no sincerer friend than Catharine Gregory.” She folded the little note, and stepping across the hall, laid it on Clara’s table. As she sat at the window, reading, the next morning, the trampling of horses in the court-yard attracted her notice. There sat Clara on her horse, Brentford encouraging her graceful timidity, and caressing the fiery animal on which she was mounted. Another moment and he, too, vaulted into the saddle, and away! Nobody knew better than Brentford that he looked no where so well as on a horse, and understood nothing so well as horsemanship. Mrs. Gregory admired them all, riders and horses, as they passed, looking so elegant, so excited, and so happy. “Perhaps she did not observe my note,” thought she.