“One of the days thus passed had been deliciously mild, and, although mid-winter, in that heavenly climate where flowers are ever blooming in the open air, each breeze was laden with the heavy odor of the orange blossom, and the fainter perfume of the Provence rose. Stepping lightly from the balcony where Paul and she had been seated watching the piled-up masses of crimson, of purple, and of gold that hung like regal drapery round the couch of the western sun, Carlotta pushed aside the opening blossoms of the night-jasmine which intercepted her reach, and gathering a handful of rose-buds, carried them to Paul. He took the flowers from his wife, and looking mournfully upon them, said, ‘When we cross the waters to visit my native land, we will take with us some of your precious roses, beloved, and beautify my mother’s silent home; and now,’ he continued, twining his arm round her waist, and leading her to the harp, ‘sing me that little song I wrote while yet a student in old Rome.’ Pressing her lips upon his brow, Carlotta seated herself, and sung the song, which she had set to music. The air was soft and melancholy, and the sweet tones of the singer were tremulous with emotion. Fill high the festive bowl to-night, In memory of former years, And let the wine-cup foam as bright As ere our eyes were dimmed with tears. Pledge, pledge me those whose joyous smile Around our happy circle shone, Whose genial mirth would hours beguile, Which, but for them, were sad and lone. Those hours, those friends, those social ties, They linger round me yet, Like twilight clouds of golden dyes, When summer suns have set. Then fill the bowl—but while you drink, In silence pledge all once so dear, Nor let the gay ones round us think We sigh for those who are not here. “‘My dear Paul,’ said his wife, smiling through the tears with which, in spite of her efforts to repress them, her eyes were suffused, ‘this sad song should be sung on the last night of the year, the night for which it was composed. It should be sung while the student-band of artists stood around, each holding the flower-wreathed goblet from which he might quaff in silence, while his heart-memories were wandering back to fatherland. Let me sing,’—she paused on seeing the deep melancholy depicted on her husband’s countenance—‘nay, forgive me for jesting, love, I know with whom are your thoughts to-night, and will not ask you to listen to a lighter strain.’