“It is a most brilliant ball, especially in the matter of costumes,” the widow laughs back. The brilliant ball closes about midnight. Compassion for Tip the fiddler, who assures us, however, that he is not tired, and for Aunt Markham, whose sleeping-apartment adjoins the ballroom, together with a recollection of our travel during the past day and early rising on the morrow, join to make us dismiss our new acquaintances to their camp. The moon has risen and is shining brightly when we go to the piazza to see them off with many jests, farewell words, and good wishes. This is not the last of them, however. An hour later we are roused from sleep by voices under our window suddenly bursting into song. “Those scamps!” says Sylvia. “They threatened me with a serenade, and I said to them, ‘Don’t,’ but you see they have come.” “One or two of them have good voices,” says Mrs. Cardigan. “Listen! Really this is worth being waked for.” We agree that it is. The silver moonlight streams, the dark foliage sways gently, the merry voices rise in chorus. Song follows song—serenades, woodland ballads, hunting-glees. Several of the voices are excellent. It is a melodious tenor which presently sings that exquisite serenade: “I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet Has led me, who knows how, To thy chamber-window, sweet.” “If it is half as pleasant for them to sing as for us to listen, how they must be enjoying themselves!” says Mrs. Cardigan. “What is that? ‘Good-by, Sweetheart, Good-by!’ They mean to close now.” “I must throw them a flower when they finish,” says Sylvia, stealing to the window. The flower is thrown, “Good-nights” are uttered, then steps and voices recede; the last we hear, some one is singing, as they tramp down the road: “’Tis but a little faded flower, But, oh, how dear to me! It brings me back one joyous hour—” The words grow inaudible, the laughter dies away, our pleasant friends of a day are gone! CHAPTER XIV. “How fair this mountain’s purple bust, Alone in high and glimmering air, And see yon village spires upthrust, And yon dark plain—how fair! “How fair this lone and lovely scene, And yonder dropping fiery ball, And eve’s sweet spirit, which steals unseen With darkness over all!” The early sunshine is lying warm and bright over the valley, and the far mountains stand fully revealed in soft blue loveliness beneath the radiant sky, when we bid farewell next morning to the pastoral landscape which has charmed us so much, and continue our journey.