And then Jacques paused; his conversation as usual dried up like a fountain at midsummer. He made a desperate effort. "I thought I heard you singing as I entered," he said. "Yes, I believe I was," smiled Belle-bouche. "What music was so happy?" Jacques sighed. Belle-bouche laughed. "A child's song," she said. "Pray what!" "'Lady bird, lady bird, fly away home.'" "A most exquisite air," sighed Jacques; "please commence again." "But I have finished." "Then something else, my dearest Miss Belle-bouche; see how unfortunate I am--pray pardon me." "Willingly," said Belle-bouche, smiling with a roseate blush. "I always fancy myself in Arcady when I am near you," he said tenderly. "Why? because you find me very idle?" "Oh, no; but Arcady, you know, was the abode of sylvan queens--dryads and oreads and naiads," said the classic Jacques; "and you are like them." "Like a dryad?" "They were very beautiful." Belle-bouche blushed again; and to conceal her blushes bent over the screen. Jacques sighed. "Chloes are dead, however," he murmured, "and the reed of Pan is still. The fanes of Arcady are desolate." And having uttered this beautiful sentiment, the melancholy Jacques was silent. "Do you like 'My Arcady?'" asked Belle-bouche; "I think it very pretty." "It is the gem of music. Ah! to hear you sing it," sighed poor Corydon. Belle-bouche quite simply rose, and going to the spinet, sat down and played the prelude. Jacques listened with closed eyes and heaving bosom. "Please hand me the music," said Belle-bouche; "there in the scarlet binding." Jacques started and obeyed. As she received it, the young girl's hand touched his own, and he uttered a sigh which might have melted rocks. The reason was, that Jacques was in love: we state the fact, though it has probably appeared before. Belle-bouche's voice was like liquid moonlight and melodious flowers. Its melting involutions and expiring cadences unwound themselves and floated from her lips like satin ribbon gradually drawn out. As for Jacques, he was in a dream; one might have supposed that his nerves were steeped in the liquid melody--or at times, when he started, that the music came over him like a shower bath of perfume. His sighs would have conciliated tigers; and when she turned and smiled on him, he almost staggered. "Now," said Belle-bouche smiling softly, "suppose I sing something a little merrier. You know the minuet always gives place to the reel." Jacques uttered an expiring assent, and Belle-bouche commenced singing with her laughing voice the then popular ditty, "Pretty Betty Martin, tip-toe fine." If her voice sighed before, it laughed out loudly now. The joyous and exhilarating music sparkled, glittered, fell in rosy showers--rattled like liquid diamonds and dry rain. It flashed, and glanced, and ran--and stumbling over itself, fell upwards, showering back again in shattered cadences and fiery foam.