"And there is the instrument you play so divinely. How much pleasure it would give me to hear you." "Don't ask me just now, I beg of you, Ernestine. I should burst into tears at the sound of the first note. When I am sad, music always makes me weep." "I can understand that, but you will let me hear you play and sing some day, will you not?" "Oh, yes, I promise you that." "And, by the way, speaking of music," continued Ernestine, trying to control herself, "the other night when I was at Madame Herbaut's, I heard somebody say that a very sick lady once sent for you to play and sing for her." "That is true," replied Herminie, sadly, "and this lady was the one I spoke to you about the other evening because she had a daughter whose name was the same as yours." "And while she was listening to you the poor lady's sufferings became less poignant?" "Because she forgot them, but alas! this alleviation of her sufferings could not save her." "Kind-hearted as you are, Herminie, what loving attentions you must have lavished on the poor lady." "Her situation was so interesting, so pitiable, you see, Ernestine. To die while still so young, and deploring the absence of a beloved daughter!" "Did she ever speak of this daughter to you, Herminie?" "Poor unhappy mother! Her child was the subject of her every thought. She had a portrait of her, painted when she was a mere child, and I have often seen her eyes fill with tears when they rested upon the picture. She often told me, too, how richly her daughter deserved her tenderness by the amiability and sweetness of her disposition. She spoke, too, of letters which her daughter wrote to her every day, letters in which her beloved child's nobility of heart showed itself in every line." "This lady must have loved you very much to make you her confidante to such an extent, Herminie." "She treated me with the greatest kindness, so it was only natural I should become deeply attached to her." "And the daughter of this lady who was so fond of you, and whom you seem to have loved so much in return,--have you never felt any desire to make the acquaintance of this other Ernestine?" "Yes, for everything her mother told me about her made me love her in advance, as it were, but at that time she was in a foreign land. When she returned to France, I did, for a time, have some hope of seeing and knowing her, but I was disappointed in that." "How did that happen, my dear Herminie?" inquired Ernestine, concealing her curiosity, at least in part, however. "Business took me to the house of her guardian, and while I was there something was said about my giving the young lady music lessons." Ernestine gave a joyous start. This idea had never occurred to her before, but wishing to have something to justify her curiosity in Herminie's eyes, she exclaimed, laughingly: