The individual who shared her piercing looks in the second degree, was undoubtedly the painter, with whom she carried on a conversation frequently very animated, and distinguished by a kind of malicious ambition, no one knew why, unless it proceeded from sheer good will, to betray him into inconsistencies and contradictions. She took occasion to recur to the subject of the serenade, and requested him, with many compliments, to resume 'the pretty little ditty of the Sigh and the Whisper,' as she called it, which had been so abruptly terminated on the preceding night by the rain-cloud, and the request being backed by that of others, he very good-naturedly consented to sing, objecting however to the lay in question, that being entirely of a serenading character, and therefore unfit for chanting by day-light. "Instead of that," said he, "I will sing you the song of _River, O River_, which always brings back the dear Pedee to my recollections." And so saying, with but little of that hemming and coughing, which we have good authority for esteeming the 'prelude to a bad voice,' he immediately sang the following little roundelay, turning his eyes the while, with a mournful earnestness, upon the Delaware, as if _that_, by a turn of prosopopoeia, was made to supply the place of the Southern river. I. River, O River of light! whereon The eyes of my youth were cast, And many an idle hour and day In mirth and joy were past; Still bright and quiet thou flowest on, As flow'd my earlier years, Without a ripple, save those that rise Beneath my dropping tears. II. River, O River! the trees still shake Their leaves in thy passing tide; And the nodding flowers the glass'd flowers see, That mock them as they glide. 'Twas thus, even thus, in ages gone; But others,--alas, all flown!-- Were wont to sit on thy gray old rocks, Where now I rest alone. III. River, O River! thy charm is gone, For those that gave it are fled; And the thoughts thou wakest are dark and sad,-- The thoughts of the distant dead. None of them rest where they should rest, By the waters they loved to see; And thy green banks a grave shall yield To none, unless to me. IV. River, O River! my lady yet Walks on thy verdant shore; But though she smiles on thy bright blue waves, She smiles on me no more. I will not look on thy happy tide, Nor list to thy breeze's stir, When knowing, however she sighs by thee, Another sighs with her. A deep sigh came from the breast of Jingleum; but before it had reached any ear but his own, Miss Falconer fixed her eyes on the singer, and asked him, with much inquisitorial emphasis, "Pray, sir, how came those 'gray old rocks' into the Pedee?" "_How!_" echoed Herman; "Truly, I know not; that is a question for a geologist."