“Not a ballad?--not even one of the Melodies?” “Not even one of the Melodies,” said she, sorrowfully. “Shame upon me for that 'even,'” said Repton; “but you see what comes of surviving one's generation. I lived in an age when the 'Last Rose of Summer' and the 'Harp that Once' were classical as Homer's 'Hymns,' but I have now fallen upon times when English music is estimated in the same category with English cookery, and both deemed very little above barbarous. To be sure,” added he, “it does seem very like a poetical justice for the slavish adherence of _our_ education to Greek and Roman literature, that our ladies should only sing to us in the languages of Italy or Germany.” “I hope you would not imply that we are as little versed in these as great scholars are in the others?” said Kate Henderson, slyly. “Sharply said, miss, and truthfully insinuated too! Not to mention that there is courage in such a speech before Mr. Nelligan, here.” “Yes--very true--a just remark!” said Joseph, who only overheard a reference to himself without understanding to what it alluded. And now a very joyous burst of laughter from the others startled him, while it covered him with confusion. “We must make them sing, Nelligan,” said Repton, gayly. “They'll vanquish us in these tilting-matches of word-fence.--Now, Miss Henderson, something very plaintive and very sentimental, to suit the tenderness of a feeling heart.” “I'll sing for you with pleasure,” said Kate. “Will this suit you?” And with a short prelude she sang one of those brilliant little snatches of Venetian melody which seem like the outburst of a sudden inspiration,--wild, joyous, floating as they are,--wherein such is the expression that sounds usurp the place of language, and the mind is carried away by a dreamy fascination impossible to resist. “How often have I heard that on the Lido!” said Mas-singbred, entering the room hastily; “and what a glorious thing it is!” “Then you know this?” said Kate, running her fingers over the notes, and warbling out another of the popular airs of the same class. “The last time I heard that,” said Jack, musingly, “was one night when returning home from a late party, along the Grand Canal at Venice. There is a single word at the end of each verse which should be uttered by a second voice. Just as I passed beneath a brilliantly lighted salon, the sounds of this melody came floating forth, and as the stanza finished, I supplied the 'refrain.'” “You?” cried Kate, eagerly. “Yes; but why do you ask?” “Do you remember the exact spot?” said she, not heeding his question. “As well as though I were there only yesterday.” “Shall I tell you where it was?” He waited, and she went on: “It was under the balcony of the Mocenigo Palace.” “Why, this is witchcraft,” cried Jack; “you are perfectly correct.” “The bouquet that was thrown to you from the window fell into the water.”