y power!" she replied, rising, and motioning him to
assume the music-stool, which he did very readily. Skilfully running
over the keys, by way of prelude, while she stood leaning gracefully
against the instrument, intently regarding his movements, he commenced
the symphony. The swelling notes rose on the air in brilliant variety,
and when, at the end of the second chorus, the rich, mellow tones of his
voice were added, Louise dropped on her knees beside the performer,
while tears gathered in her eyes and rolled over her beautiful face. He
did not seem to heed her position, so intently was his soul occupied
with the music his lips were breathing. At length the last magic strain
died mournfully away. Then he rested his deep blue eyes calmly on her
glowing features.

"What shall I do for you?" she asked, smiling.

"You promised," answered he, "to do anything I wished, if I would sing
the piece."

"So I will," returned she, earnestly.

"Then," said he, in a low, thrilling tone, "as Steerforth said to David,
think of me at my best."

She looked at him eagerly. "Is that all?" she asked.

"That is enough," he answered; "will you promise _always_ to do that?"

She paused a few moments, and then answered, in a tone which indicated
her whole soul spoke in the words, "Yes, I promise."

"Thank you," said he, extending his hand.

She gave him hers. He held it a moment in his own. Then, pressing it
respectfully to his lips, bade her good-morning, and retired.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"And when in other climes we meet,
Some isle or vale enchanting,
And all looks flowery, wild and sweet,
And naught but love is wanting,
We think how blest had been our fate,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die 'mid scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us."

Shout, reader, on the hill-tops of deliverance, for you and I are out of
Wimbledon. We have left behind us the Pimbles, the Mumbles, the Simcoes,
and their multitudinous voices grow indistinct in the distance, as,
borne by the rushing steam-steed, we fly on our way in search of our
fair traveller, who has got the start of us by several hours. We hardly
know whether to go up the Hudson, or hold straight on over the Erie road
for Niagara; but as we have no particular desire to see the former, our
remembranc