Frau Luise stood on deck in the bow of the vessel with several of her favorite pupils near her; no one uttered a word. We were allowing the memories of this delightful day to re-echo in our hearts. Her head was turned toward the west, where the sun was slowly sinking, and her dear face and tall figure were warmly illumined by the crimson glow. With what a youthful light her eyes sparkled! The silvery luster of her hair had vanished in the golden radiance. It seemed impossible to believe that this woman had just celebrated her forty-fourth birthday. "Sing something!" said Agnes, who stood nearest. "Ah, yes, do sing!" entreated the others. She did not seem to have heard them. Yet suddenly, as if in a dream, she sang, _mezza voce_, an Italian air, an aria from Paesiello, of which she was especially fond. And, as the steamer swept on into the crimson light, the song rose clearer and stronger till she poured forth the full power of her voice, whose every note must have been distinctly audible on the shore. The whole company had gradually glided closer to us, and I saw by their rapt faces how they were enjoying the foreign beauty of the melody, whose words no one understood. Even the people on the shore, peasants with their carts and solitary pedestrians, stopped as if enchanted, and gazed at the black ship slowly dividing the waves bearing a singing nixie on her deck. Then the vessel turned, and the sun was behind us. The aria was finished, and the burgomaster had given the signal for applause, in which all joined with great fervor. When silence was restored, and the group waited for the singing to be resumed, she began, without waiting to be asked, Beethoven's "Knows't thou the Land!" which she had transposed to suit the deeper notes of her voice. "Mignon certainly had an alto voice," she once jestingly said to me. Never had I heard her sing it so superbly, never heard the "Thither! thither!" express such strong, sweet, uncontrollable yearning. We reached the landing-place just as the last notes died away. The burgomaster was so deeply moved that he forgot to applaud, went to her, and, with tears in his honest old eyes, bent, seized both hands, and faltered: "I thank you, I thank you a thousand times, madame! This is the fairest day of my life! You have made us all happy." She smiled and looked at me. "It was my swan song," she said. "I fear I shall be obliged to give up singing. Just hear how hoarse this little exertion has suddenly made me."