rickling down her cheek; and Madame Giche saw it.

"Are those tears for me, little Inna?" she asked gently.

"Yes." A shy "Yes" it was.

"My dear, that will never do--young people's sunshine should not be
overshadowed by old people's clouds. Now, do you know what I want you to
do?"

"No, dear Madame Giche."

"To come down and sing to me."

The beautiful mellow-toned piano from the drawing-room had been removed
to the tapestried chamber, and a new one sent from London to fill its
place. Quite little musical parties did the aged lady have, now and
then, of an evening, in the gloaming, the four children, with lights at
the piano, trilling in their bird-like voices some little snatch of a
juvenile song, duet, trio, and sometimes a quartette, their nimble
fingers wandering among the keys the while in a tangle of melody. But of
all the four, their aged listener loved best to hear Inna sing: her
voice was so plaintive, so expressive. The charm lay in this: that she
was always thinking of her mother at such times, and her heart seemed to
speak in her voice. It did to-night, when she sat down to the piano, her
gentle old friend on the hearth by the smouldering log fire.

"Sing that little thing I heard you practising so nicely yesterday,"
came to her across the room. So, with a tinkling little prelude, she
began--

"A daisy wept in the moonlight pale,
And bowed her beautiful head,
And a little white moth came dancing by--
'Why weep, sweet daisy?' it said.

"'I weep for that which can never be,
I sigh for a wider sphere--
Would, little moth, I had wings like thine!
Instead, I am rooted here.'

"'A moth, my life is a sweet content,
But no worthy life for thee.'
'Change!' cried the daisy; 'take my place;
A little white moth I'd be.'

"And lo! the daisy took silver wings,
And forth from the meadow flew;
The little white moth became a flower,
A daisy-cup dash'd with dew.

"The wide earth blessed the changeling flower,
The heavens smil'd down above;
A boundless life was the daisy's life,
Her mission, a lowly love.

"A little white moth, with broken wings,
Came home, when nights were drear,
To breathe her last on the daisy's breast.
She had missed her rightful sphere."

"Yes, dear; it's not so much what we are, or where we are, but what
we're doing, that makes a life of usefulness and fulness," said Mad