At length, one afternoon, weary of the long, unbroken silence of the chamber, Marguerite began to sing. The song was one she had learnt from her mother, and was called “Normandie, chère Normandie.” She had a rich contralto voice, and the effect which the melody wrought upon Abel was something perfectly marvellous; and as her face happened to be turned towards his, she noticed the change at once, and her eyes filled with glad tears. “Glory! glory! I am escaping from the infernal regions; the darkness and the voices are leaving me. Thank God! thank God!” he cried. And Marguerite, only too happy to rouse him out of his lethargy, continued singing for well-nigh half an hour. Then, placing herself beside him on the bench, she gave way to her joy in laughter and merry talk, while Abel’s countenance wore an expression almost radiant, and, resting one of his hands on her head as a father might have done, “All is blue sky at last,” he said. “I feel as I have not felt in many a day. Oh! had I had you always with me, the demons would never have shrieked in my ears; your angelic songs would have driven them away.” “Well, you can’t imagine,” returned Marguerite, “how happy it makes me to make you happy.” Then, after a pause: “But now, dear friend, I have a favor to ask: I wish you to tell me the history of your life; for there is a mystery in it—I am sure there is. Do tell it to me. Not that I am curious, but I firmly believe ’twill do you good to let me carry a part of the burden which has almost crushed you down.” “Fool, fool that I was to live all by myself so many years!” spoke Abel in a musing tone, and paying no heed to her request. “The mocking voices cannot abide cheerful company; it frightens them off.” Then, turning to Marguerite: “You’ll not let them come back, will you?” “You are dreaming,” answered the girl, patting his hand. “Why, this room was still as the tomb until I began to sing.” “No, no, it wasn’t; I heard them all the while.” “Well, don’t fear them any more. I’ll stay with you; I’ll be your canary, your nightingale, your musical box,” she said with a merry laugh. “So pray begin and give me a little of your past history; for the sooner you begin the sooner you’ll end, and then I’ll sing another song.”