and I joyfully
unite my thanks with yours. Let me hear your voice once more."

Trembling with excess of happiness, she sat down and sang feelingly,
eloquently, her favorite "_O mon Fernand_;" and, as he listened, Dr.
Grey looked almost wonderingly at the beautiful flashing face, that
had never seemed half so radiant before. There was marvellous witchery
in her rich round flexible tones, that wound into the holy-of-holies
of the man's great heart, and elevated his thoughts above the dross
and dust of earth.

When she ended, he placed his soft palm tenderly on her head, and
smoothed the glossy hair.

"I thank you inexpressibly. Sometimes when sad memories oppress me,
how I shall long to have you charm them away by that magical spell
that bears my thoughts from this world to the next. There are some
songs which you must learn for my sake."

Ah! at that moment, as she stood there robed in a soft stainless white
muslin, with a cluster of double pomegranate flowers glowing in her
silky hair, the girl was very lovely, very attractive, so full of
youthful grace, so winning in her beautiful enthusiasm,--yet Ulpian
Grey's heart did not wander for an instant from one who slept
dreamlessly under the sculptured urn on the marble altar of the
mausoleum.

"Why are the dead not dead? Who can undo
What time hath done? Who can win back the wind?
Beckon lost music from a broken lute?
Renew the redness of a last year's rose?
Or dig the sunken sunset from the deep?"

"Dr. Grey, if my voice can chase away one vexing thought, one wearying
care or melancholy memory, I shall feel that I have additional reason
to thank God for the precious gift."

"I have not seen you look so happy for three years. Indeed, my little
sister, you have much for which to be grateful, and in the midst of
your blessings try to recollect those grand words of Marcus Aurelius
Antoninus, 'The soul is a God in exile.' My child, look to it that
your expatriation ends with the shores of time, for--

'Yea, this is life; make this forenoon sublime,
This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer,
And time is conquered, and thy crown is won.'"

For some seconds Salome did not speak, for the shadow on his
countenance fell upon her heart, and looking reverently up at him, she
thought of Richter's mournful _dictum_,--"Great souls attract sorrows,
as mountains tempests."

"Dr. Grey, want of patience is the cause of half my difficulties and
defeats, and p