[*Bee, a common expression in “the West” for a meeting or gathering ]of people. “Singing mind,” said Graham, sarcastically, and in the ill-natured impulse of a man striving to check his inclination to admire. “I have not heard her sing,” replied the American, dryly; “and the words ‘singing mind’ are doubtless accurately English, since you employ them; but at Boston the collocation would be deemed barbarous. You fly off the handle. The epithet, sir, is not in concord with the substantive.” “Boston would be in the right, my dear Colonel. I stand rebuked; mind has little to do with singing.” “I take leave to deny that, sir. You fire into the wrong flock, and would not hazard the remark if you had conversed as I have with Signorina Cicogna.” Before Graham could answer, Signorina Cicogna stood before him, leaning lightly on Mrs. Morley’s arm. “Frank, you must take us into the refreshment-room,” said Mrs. Morley to her husband; and then, turning to Graham, added, “Will you help to make way for us?” Graham bowed, and offered his arm to the fair speaker. “No,” said she, taking her husband’s. “Of course you know the Signorina, or, as we usually call her, Mademoiselle Cicogna. No? Allow me to present you. Mr. Graham Vane, Mademoiselle Cicogna. Mademoiselle speaks English like a native.” And thus abruptly Graham was introduced to the owner of the haunting face. He had lived too much in the great world all his life to retain the innate shyness of an Englishman; but he certainly was confused and embarrassed when his eyes met Isaura’s, and he felt her hand on his arm. Before quitting the room she paused and looked back. Graham’s look followed her own, and saw behind them the lady with the scarlet jacket escorted by some portly and decorated connoisseur. Isaura’s face brightened to another kind of brightness,--a pleased and tender light. “Poor dear Madre,” she murmured to herself in Italian. “Madre!” echoed Graham, also in Italian. “I have been misinformed, then; that lady is your mother.” Isaura laughed a pretty, low, silvery laugh, and replied in English, “She is not my mother; but I call her Madre, for I know no name more loving.” Graham was touched, and said gently, “Your own mother was evidently very dear to you.” Isaura’s lip quivered, and she made a slight movement as if she would have withdrawn her hand from his arm. He saw that he had offended or wounded her, and with the straightforward frankness natural to him, resumed quickly, “My remark was impertinent in a stranger; forgive it.” “There is nothing to forgive, Monsieur.” The two now threaded their way through the crowd, both silent. At last Isaura, thinking she ought to speak first in order to show that Graham had not offended her, said, “How lovely Mrs. Morley is!” “Yes; and I like the spirit and ease of her American manner. Have you known her long, Mademoiselle?” “No; we met her for the first time some weeks ago at M. Savarin’s.”