ooking more
pale and depressed than ever. She was playing on the
harpischord, but sweetly and slowly. As she was playing an air
from _Richard Coeur-de-Lion_, in a melancholy strain, the
poor father fancied that he was listening to the music of
angels. One of her friends entered. 'Well, Jenny, you are going
to-night to the ball?' 'Yes, yes, to the ball,' answered poor
Jenny, looking toward heaven; and suddenly resuming, 'No, I
shall not go, my dance is ended.' Gretry pressed his daughter
to his heart, 'Jenny, are you suffering?' 'It is over!' said
she.

"She bent her head and died instantly, without a struggle! Poor
Gretry asked if she was asleep. She slept with the angels.

"Lucile was a contrast to Jenny; she was a beautiful girl, gay,
enthusiastic, and frolicksome, with all the caprices of such a
disposition. She was almost a portrait of her father, and
possessed, besides, the same heart and the same mind. 'Who
knows,' said poor Gretry, 'but that her gayety may save her.'
She was unfortunately one of those precocious geniuses who
devour their youth. At thirteen she had composed an opera which
was played every where, _Le Marriage d'Antonio_. A journalist,
a friend of Gretry, who one day found himself in Lucile's
apartment, without her being aware of it, so much was she
engrossed with her harp, has related the rage and madness which
transported her during her contests with inspiration, that was
often rebellious. 'She wept, she sang, she struck the harp with
incredible energy. She either did not see me, or took no notice
of me; for my own part, I wept with joy, in beholding this
little girl transported with so glorious a zeal, and so noble
an enthusiasm for music.'

"Lucile had learned to read music before she knew her alphabet.
She had been so long lulled to sleep with Gretry's airs, that
at the age when so many other young girls think only of hoops
and dolls, she had found sufficient music in her soul for the
whole of a charming opera. She was a prodigy. Had it not been
for death, who came to seize her at sixteen like her sister,
the greatest musician of the eighteenth century would, perhaps,
have been a woman. But the twig, scarcely green, snapped at the
moment when the poor bird commenced her song. Gretry had Lucile
marr