, she declaimed them aloud,
with far more expression than her brother had put into his reading.

Miss Lydia was very much astonished.

"You seem very fond of poetry," she said. "How I envy you the delight
you will find in reading Dante for the first time!"

"You see, Miss Nevil," said Orso, "what a power Dante's lines must have,
when they so move a wild young savage who knows nothing but her _Pater_.
But I am mistaken! I recollect now that Colomba belongs to the guild.
Even when she was quite a little child she used to try her hand at
verse-making, and my father used to write me word that she was the best
_voceratrice_ in Pietranera, and for two leagues round about."

Colomba cast an imploring glance at her brother. Miss Nevil had heard
of the Corsican _improvisatrici_, and was dying to hear one. She begged
Colomba, then, to give her a specimen of her powers. Very much vexed
now at having made any mention of his sister's poetic gifts, Orso
interposed. In vain did he protest that nothing was so insipid as a
Corsican _ballata_, and that to recite the Corsican verses after those
of Dante was like betraying his country. All he did was to stimulate
Miss Nevil's curiosity, and at last he was obliged to say to his sister:

"Well! well! improvise something--but let it be short!"

Colomba heaved a sigh, looked fixedly for a moment, first at the
table-cloth, and then at the rafters of the ceiling; at last, covering
her eyes with her hand like those birds that gather courage, and fancy
they are not seen when they no longer see themselves, she sang, or
rather declaimed, in an unsteady voice, the following _serenata_:

"THE MAIDEN AND THE TURTLE-DOVE

"In the valley, far away among the mountains, the sun only shines for
an hour every day. In the valley there stands a gloomy house, and grass
grows on its threshold. Doors and windows are always shut. No smoke
rises from the roof. But at noon, when the sunshine falls, a window
opens, and the orphan girl sits spinning at her wheel. She spins, and
as she works, she sings--a song of sadness. But no other song comes to
answer hers! One day--a day in spring-time--a turtle-dove settled on a
tree hard by, and heard the maiden's song. 'Maiden,' it said, 'thou
art not the only mourner! A cruel hawk has snatched my mate from me!'
'Turtle-dove, show me that cruel hawk; were it to soar higher than the
clouds I would soon bring it down to earth! But who will restore to me,
unhappy that