“Oh yes you can, my dear,” said her mother, who was standing near, and heard the latter part of the conversation. “What's the use of being so affected about it! You know you can sing, my dear—and I like to see young people obliging.” “That's right, Mrs. Temple,” said Bernard, “help me to urge my petition; I don't think Miss Virginia can be disobedient, even if it were in her power to be disobliging.” “The fact is, Mr. Bernard,” said the old lady, “that the young people of the present day require so much persuading, that its hardly worth the trouble to get them to do any thing.” “Well, mother, if you put it on that ground,” said Virginia, “I suppose I must waive my objections and oblige you.” So saying, she rose, and taking Bernard's arm, she seated herself at Lady Frances' splendid harp, which was sent from England as a present by her brother-in-law, Lord Berkeley. Drawing off her white gloves, and running her little tapering fingers over the strings, Virginia played a melancholy symphony, which accorded well with the sad words that came more sadly on the ear through the medium of her plaintive voice:— “Fondly they loved, and her trusting heart With the hopes of the future bounded, Till the trumpet of Freedom condemned them to part, And the knell of their happiness sounded. “But his is a churl's and a traitor's choice, Who, deaf to the call of duty, Would linger, allured by a syren's voice, On the Circean island of beauty. “His country called! he had heard the sound, And kissed the pale cheek of the maiden, Then staunched with his blood his country's wound, And ascended in glory to Aidenn. “The shout of victory lulled him to sleep The slumber that knows no dreaming, But a martyr's reward he will proudly reap, In the grateful tears of Freemen. “And long shall the maidens remember her love, And heroes shall dwell on his story; She died in her constancy like the lone dove, But he like an eagle in glory. “Oh let the dark cypress mourn over her grave, And light rest the green turf upon her; While over his ashes the laurel shall wave, For he sleeps in the proud bed of honour.” The reader need not be told that this simple little ballad derived new beauty from the feeling with which Virginia sang it. The remote connection of its story with her own love imparted additional sadness to her sweet voice, and as she dwelt on the last line, her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled. Bernard marked the effect which had been produced, and a thrill of jealousy shot through his heart at seeing this new evidence of the young girl's constancy.