“Yes,” replied the girl. “And you can sing and play at sight—can you not?” “Yes, if it is not too difficult.” “Is this difficult?” he asked, holding a page out to her. “No, that is very simple,” said Zuleime, looking entirely at the music—not at the words. “It _is_ a ballad of Thomas Moore’s. I wish you to sing it for us. Will you?” “Certainly.” “Come, then,” he said, and took her hand, and led her to the piano. He seated her, and laid the song before her, saying to himself, “If she can sing _that_ through without emotion—ay, or _with_ emotion—if she can get through it at all—she can do, or suffer anything! She is a heroine.” Zuleime was reading over the words, preparatory to singing them. And he was watching her intently. But she read through the song, turning the leaves calmly, her pale cheek never changing its hue. Then she restored the first page to its place before her, and began to play the prelude. The ladies and old Mr. Clifton drew near, and gathered around her. Then her voice arose, soft, clear and plaintive, but unfaltering as her cheek remained unchanging—though her father trembled for her as the words of the song fell on his ear. That song was “The Broken Heart,” by Thomas Moore. Zuleime sang— She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers around her are sighing, But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking: Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. Her voice faltered—she paused. “Come! no miserable, maudlin, mawkish self-pity, I beseech you!” whispered Major Cabell, stooping to her ear. Whether Mr. Clifton heard the cruel whisper, or whether he only saw her slight agitation, is uncertain—but he drew near and stood by her side. She recovered, and continued— He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life— She paused again—again essayed to sing—her voice quavering, sunk into silence like the rudely-swept strings of the harpsichord—the grayness of death crept over her countenance, and she fell back into the arms of her father, who angrily exclaimed— “Charles! you are a brute! a demon! to ask her to sing that song. Zuleime! Zuleime, my darling! speak to me!” He sat down on the sofa, holding her in his arms. The ladies drew around with fans, with cold water, with hartshorn. But she recovered very soon, and sat up—and declined going up stairs to bed—and thanked them all for their care, gently begging them not to take so much trouble on her account. “This is all very strange, madam,” said Mrs. Cabell, aside to Mrs. Clifton.