As I listened with rapt ears and closed eyes, wonderful scenes passed before my mental vision: the beautiful white-haired lady of my childish dreams, leading a small _female_ child by the hand, and that child was myself; the pigeons and their tower, the stream and the water-mill; the white-haired young man with red heels to his shoes; a very fine lady, very tall, stout, and middle-aged, magnificently dressed in brocaded silk; a park with lawns and alleys and trees cut into trim formal shapes; a turreted castle--all kinds of charming scenes and people of another age and country. "What on earth is that wonderful tune, Mary?" I exclaimed, when she had finished it. "It's my favorite tune," she answered; "I seldom hum it for fear of wearing away its charm. I suppose that is why you have never heard it before. Isn't it lovely? I've been trying to lull you awake with it. "My grandfather, the violinist, used to play it with variations of his own, and made it famous in his time; but it was never published, and it's now forgotten. "It is called 'Le Chant du Triste Commensal,' and was composed by his grandmother, a beautiful French woman, who played the fiddle too; but not as a profession. He remembered her playing it when he was a child and she was quite an old lady, just as I remember _his_ playing it when I was a girl in Vienna, and he was a white-haired old man. She used to play holding her fiddle downward, on her knee, it seems; and always played in perfect tune, quite in the middle of the note, and with excellent taste and expression; it was her playing that decided his career. But she was like 'Single-speech Hamilton,' for this was the only thing she ever composed. She composed it under great grief and excitement, just after her husband had died from the bite of a wolf, and just before the birth of her twin-daughters--her only children--one of whom was my great-grandmother." "And what was this wonderful old lady's name?" "Gatienne Aubery; she married a Breton squire called Budes, who was a _gentilhomme verrier_ near St. Prest, in Anjou--that is, he made glass--decanters, water-bottles, tumblers, and all that, I suppose--in spite of his nobility. It was not considered derogatory to do so; indeed, it was the only trade permitted to the _noblesse_, and one had to be at least a squire to engage in it. "She was a very notable woman, _la belle Verriere_, as she was called; and she managed the glass factory for many years after her husband's death, and made lots of money for her two daughters." "How strange!" I exclaimed; "Gatienne Aubery! Dame du Brail--Budes--the names are quite familiar to me. Mathurin Budes, Seigneur de Monhoudeard et de Verny le Moustier."