elf. I was
her constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never
complained.

'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill,
and I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I fear it
was worse than that.'

'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'

'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will
only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis--'

'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard,
on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

'I have surely heard that voice before!' said Emily, at length.

'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, solemnly,
'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music of one!'

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had
formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that
she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much
affected, that she had nearly fainted.

'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heard
this music, soon after my lady's death! I well remember the night!'--
'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, and
listen.'

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance,
and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods,
whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other
feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however,
allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe
upon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative.

'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that
music. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat up
later than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking
a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately
witnessed. The chateau was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a
good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful
things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I
felt very lonely a