"He made up hymns, marm, and psalms--for instance: 'Watts's Divine Hymns and Spiritual Songs.'" "Songs? Spiritnelle? Ah, I mus at once procuaire ze works of Watt, which was favorit poet of my Senator." "A lady of such intelligence as you would like the poet Watts," said the Senator, firmly. [Illustration: La Cica.] "He is the best known by far of all our poets." "What? better zan Sakespeare, Milton, Bairon? You much surprass me." "Better known and better loved than the whole lot. Why, his poetry is known by heart through all England and America." "Merciful Heaven! what you tell me! ees eet possbl! An yet he is not known here efen by name. It would plees me mooch, my Senator, to hajre you make one quotatione. Know you Watt? Tell to me some words of his which I may remembaire." "I have a shocking bad memory." "Bad raemora! Oh, but you remember somethin, zis mos beautful charm nait--you haf a nobile soul--you mus be affecta by beauty--by ze ideal. Make for a me one quotatione." And she rested her little hand on the Senator's arm, and looked up imploringly in his face. The Senator looked foolish. He felt even more so. Here was a beautiful woman, by act and look showing a tender interest in him. Perplexing--but very flattering after all. So he replied: "You will not let me refuse you any thing." "Aha! you are vera willin to refuse. It is difficulty for me to excitare youar regards. You are fill with the grands ideas. But come--will you spik for me some from your favorit Watt?" "Well, if you wish it so much," said the Senator, kindly, and he hesitated. "Ah--I do wis it so much!" "Ehem!" "Begin," said the Countess. "Behold me. I listen. I hear everysin, and will remembaire it forava." The only thing that the Senator could think of was the verse which had been running in his head for the last few days, its measured rhythm keeping time with every occupation: "'My willing soul would stay--'" "Stop one moment," said the Countess. "I weesh to learn it from you;" and she looked fondly and tenderly up, but instantly dropped her eyes. "'Ma willina sol wooda sta--'" "In such a frame as this,'" prompted the Senator. "'Een socha framas zees.' Wait--'Ma willina sol wooda sta in socha framas zees.' Ah, appropriat! but could I hope zat you were true to zose lines, my Senator? Well?" "'And sit and sing herself away,'" said the Senator, in a faltering voice, and breaking out into a cold perspiration for fear of committing himself by such uncommonly strong language. "'Ansit ansin hassaf awai,'" repeated the Countess, her face lighting up with a sweetly conscious expression. The Senator paused. "Well?" "I--ehem! I forget." "Forget? Impossible!" "I do really." "Ah now! Forget? I see by youar face--you desave. Say on." The Countess again gently touched his arm with both of her little hands, and held it as though she would clasp it. "Have you fear? Ah, cruel!" The Senator turned pale, but finding refusal impossible, boldly finished: