plaintive strain of wailing, while his voice took up the song of mourning for the dead. Till that moment St. Real had no idea of all that music can produce. He had heard sweet songs, and what were then considered fine compositions; but this was something totally different; this was a painting addressed not to the eye, but to the ear; and that not with words which with laborious minuteness, describe insignificant parts, without conveying effectually grand impressions; but with sounds which, rousing fancy's greatest powers at once, called up all the splendid pageantry of imagination to complete for the mind's eye the grand pictures that those tones suggested. The boy, too, as he sung, looked like one inspired; his eyes flashed and glittered; his voice rose and fell with every touch of feeling which his song expressed; and his hand seemed now playing amidst the strings, as if in childish sport; now sweeping them with all the fire and power of some mighty master of song; but ever with such perfect ease and grace, that it seemed a gift rather than an accomplishment. When his voice had ceased, St. Real sat rapt for one moment by all the feelings which the music had inspired; and then, gazing upon the youth, he said, "You are an extraordinary boy, and I must one day have your history, Leonard." The youth shook his head; but then after a short pause added, abruptly, "Perhaps you may, perhaps you may--but now while the lute is in tune, I will sing you another song--a song about love;" and without waiting for reply, he struck the chords, and began, with a measure and a tone so different, as for a time to seem almost tame and insignificant, when compared with the wild and thrilling energy of the former music. But as he went on, there was a touching and melancholy pathos in the words and in the air which went direct to St. Real's heart, rousing feelings which he would fain have lulled to sleep, and overwhelming him with deeper melancholy than ever. So sad, so sorrowful did it make him,--so completely did it master him and take possession of his imagination, that he could have given way even to tears, if there had been no eye to see him so unmanned. The boy was still going on; but St. Real waved his hand, exclaiming, "Hush, hush! no more! It is too much for me!" The boy looked up with a smile, saying, "He that will not find Ease when he may, Leaves all joy behind For ever and a day. "Yet let him wither His own hopes at will, So that no other Blossoms he kill." St. Real started, somewhat surprised. "You seem to know," he said, "more of me and mine than I fancied. I must hear what you do know, Leonard, and how you know it, before you quit me."