e comprenda pas.'"

"The music of that is not my father's best--but you ask it, yes." Then
she began, first playing after her own heart little dancing airs, gay
and fantastic, and at last slid into a plaintive strain, and recited
the accompaniment of rhythmic words.

"Mon ame a son secret, ma vie a son mystere:
Un amour eternel en un moment concu.
Le mal est sans espoir, aussi j'ai du le taire
Et celle qui l'a fait n'en a jamais rien su."

One minor note came and went and came again, through the melody, until
the last tones fell on that note and were held suspended in a
tremulous plaint.

"Elle dira, lisant ces vers tout remplis d'elle:
'Quelle est donc cette femme?' et ne comprendra pas."

Without pause she passed into a quick staccato and then descended
to long-drawn tones, deep and full. "This is better, but I have never
played it for you because that it is Polish, and to make it in
English and so sing it is hard. You have heard of our great and good
general Kosciuszko, yes? My father loved well to speak of him and
also of one very high officer under him,--I speak his name for you,
Julian Niemcewicz. This high officer, I do not know how to say in
English his rank, but that is no matter. He was writer, and poet,
and soldier--all. At last he was exiled and sorrowful, like my
father,--sorrowful most of all because he might no more serve his
country. It is to this poet's own words which he wrote for his grave
that my father have put in music the cry of his sorrow. In Polish
is it more beautiful, but I sing it for you in English for your
comprehending."

"O, ye exiles, who so long wander over the world,
Where will ye find a resting place for your weary steps?
The wild dove has its nest, and the worm a clod of earth,
Each man a country, but the Pole a grave!"

It was indeed a cry of sorrow, the wail of a dying nation, and as
Amalia played and sang she became oblivious of all else a being
inspired by lofty emotion, while the two men sat in silence, wondering
and fascinated. The mother's eyes glowed upon her out of the obscurity
of her corner, and her voice alone broke the silence.

"I have heard my Paul in the night of the desert where he made that
music, I have heard him so play and sing it, that it would seem the
stars must fall down out of the heavens with sorrow for it."

Amalia smiled and caught up her violin again. "We