"On a certain evening I was there, and the clock striking eleven, I rose and was about to take my leave, when the widow urged me to remain, saying that she had received an intimation that Love, Dove, and Bliss, who, you must know, sing as sweetly as nightingales, were coming to entertain Rosabel with a serenade. Now, the widow has a singular antipathy to the Seven Sweethearts, and not one of them can gain admission to her mansion; but Love, Dove, and Bliss had met Rosabel a few nights before at a party, where Dove kept fluttering around her until the widow, who was also present, expressed a desire to take him home and put him in a cage with her canary-bird. It was a fine moonlight night, and we sat conversing in the parlor until about twelve o'clock, when we heard the voice of Dove under Rosabel's window, singing, in mellifluous notes,-- 'Wake, fairest, awake! at thy window now be; The moon on the midnight her splendor is pouring. Wake, fairest, awake! from thy window now see, Like a saint at his shrine, thy lover adoring. 'Come, beautiful, forth on thy balcony high, While silver-toned music around thee is floating; And yon shooting-star shall come down from the sky, Like a slave at thy feet his homage devoting. 'Nay, venture not, dearest! lest over the air Some spirits should chance to be wand'ring this even; And, deeming thee some truant angel now there, Might steal thee away to their home in the heaven.' "'Rosabel,' said I, 'how can you refrain from jumping out the window when a pretty little man like Dove invites you to come forth and behold "thy lover adoring"?' "'But,' said Rosabel, 'in the last verse he warns me not to venture.' "'That is true,' said I; 'the little man manifests a wonderful solicitude for your safety. He is apprehensive lest you might be arrested as a runaway angel,--a fugitive from service.' "'Hist! hist!' said Rosabel. "'That is Love,' said I; and the voice of the serenader was heard singing,-- 'The silvery cloudlets now are weeping, love, Sweet dewdrops on the flowers, And mellow moonlight now is creeping, love, Under the ivy bowers. And thou hast heard the vesper hymn That stirred the balmy air, When, as the shadows grew more dim, The pious met in prayer. 'Their sacred rosaries they were counting, love, Unto their saints in heaven, And telling them to what a mountain, love, Their sins had grown this even. While thus to saints on high they pour Their prayers at evening bland, I am contented to adore An angel near at hand.' "'Oh, Rosabel!' I exclaimed, 'I always thought you were an angel, and now I know it, for both Love and Dove have testified to the fact. Out of the mouths of two witnesses has the truth been established. You are an angel, Rosabel, but please don't fly away.' "'Nonsense, Toney! Don't go crazy. Be quiet--hush! Listen!'