er-of-course, making apparently no claim
whatever upon the smallest share of my attention. When the long and
tedious meal was at an end, upon her uncle's suggestion, she seated
herself at the piano, and sang in a deep, powerful contralto,
Schubert's magnificent arrangement of Heine's song of unrequited love:

"Ich grolle nicht, und wenn das Herz auch bricht,
Ewig verlornes Lieb! ich grolle nicht.
Wie du auch strahlst in Diamantenpracht,
Es fallt kein Strahl in deines Herzens Nacht."

There was a pathos and passion in her voice which fairly startled me,
and when I hastened to her side to thank her for the pleasure she had
given me, she accepted my compliments with a beautiful, unaffected
enthusiasm, as if they were meant only for the composer, and were in
no respect due to her.

"There is such a depth of suffering in every word and note," she said
with glowing cheeks. "He bears her no ill-will, he says, and still you
feel how the suppressed bitterness is still rankling within him."

She then sang "Auf Fluegeln des Gesanges," whereupon we sat down and
talked music and Heine for the rest of the evening. Mr. Pfeifer,
reclining in his capacious easy-chair, smoked on with slow, brooding
contentment, and now and then threw in a disparaging remark regarding
our favorite poet.

"He blackguarded his country abominably," he said. "And I have no
respect for a man who can do that. Besides, he was a miserable,
renegade Jew, and as I never like to have any more to do with Jews
than I can possibly help, I have never read any of his books."

"But, uncle," retorted his niece, warmly, "he certainly could not help
being a Jew. And there was no one who loved Germany more ardently than
he, even though he did say severe things about it."

"That is a thing about which you can have no opinion, Hildegard,"
said Pfeifer, with paternal decision; and he blew a dense cloud of
smoke toward the ceiling.

Miss Hildegard looked rebellious for an instant, but accepted the
verdict of superior wisdom with submissive silence. The old man gave
me a little confidential wink as if to say:

"There is a model girl for you. She knows that women should not speak
in meeting."

"What a delightfully fresh and unspoiled girl," I reflected, as I
wended my way homeward through the still moonlight; "so true-hearted,
and genuine, and unaffected. And still beneath all that sweet, womanly
tranquillity there are strong slumbering forces, which so