ed.
He began to whistle. At this the nightingales sang louder than ever.
'Hold your tongues!' he cried testily; and he made accurate notes of
all the colours and transitions--blue, and lilac, and dark brown.
'That will make a beautiful picture,' he said. He took it in just as a
mirror takes in a view; and as he worked he whistled a march of
Rossini. And last of all came a poor girl. She laid aside the burden
she carried, and sat down to rest upon the Hun's Grave. Her pale
handsome face was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest. Her
eyes brightened, she gazed earnestly at the sea and the sky, her hands
were folded, and I think she prayed, 'Our Father.' She herself could
not understand the feeling that swept through her, but I know that
this minute, and the beautiful natural scene, will live within her
memory for years, far more vividly and more truly than the painter
could portray it with his colours on paper. My rays followed her
till the morning dawn kissed her brow."

EIGHTH EVENING

Heavy clouds obscured the sky, and the Moon did not make his
appearance at all. I stood in my little room, more lonely than ever,
and looked up at the sky where he ought to have shown himself. My
thoughts flew far away, up to my great friend, who every evening
told me such pretty tales, and showed me pictures. Yes, he has had
an experience indeed. He glided over the waters of the Deluge, and
smiled on Noah's ark just as he lately glanced down upon me, and
brought comfort and promise of a new world that was to spring forth
from the old. When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of
Babylon, he glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the
silent harps. When Romeo climbed the balcony, and the promise of
true love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven, the round Moon
hung, half hidden among the dark cypresses, in the lucid air. He saw
the captive giant at St. Helena, looking from the lonely rock across
the wide ocean, while great thoughts swept through his soul. Ah!
what tales the Moon can tell. Human life is like a story to him.
To-night I shall not see thee again, old friend. Tonight I can draw no
picture of the memories of thy visit. And, as I looked dreamily
towards the clouds, the sky became bright. There was a glancing light,
and a beam from the Moon fell upon me. It vanished again, and dark
clouds flew past: but still it was a greeting, a friendly good-night
offered to me by the Moon.

NINTH EVENING