Tis withered.

And has it pleased our God to lend
His cheering smile in child or friend?
To-morrow--
To-morrow if reclaimed again
The parting hour will prove how vain
Is sorrow.

Oft hope beguiles the friends who part;
With happy smiles, and heart to heart,
'To meet,' they cry, 'we sever.'
It proves good-bye for ever.
For ever!"

[Illustration: _Painting by N. M. Price._ PARTING.
"It is decreed by heaven's behest
That man from all he loves the best
Must sever."]

"Bravo!" cried Bennett.

"Say rather, 'Bravi,'" said David, "for the song was as sweet as the
singer."

"Yes," said Bennett; "the simple repetition of the closing words of each
verse is like a sigh of regret."

"And the whole thing," added David, "has the genuine simplicity of the
true folk-melody."

Further discussion was prevented by a characteristic knock at the door.

The visitor who entered in response to Mendelssohn's call was a sturdily
built man of thirty, or thereabouts, with an air of mingled courage,
resolution, and good humour. His long straight hair was brushed back
from a broad, intellectual brow, and his thoughtful, far-looking eyes
intensified the impression he gave of force and original power. He
smiled humorously. "All the youth, beauty and intellect of Leipzig in
one room. I leave you to apportion the qualities. Making much noise,
too! And did I hear the strains of a vocal recital?"

"You did," replied Bennett; "that was my young countryman here, who has
just been singing a new song of Mendelssohn's."

"Pardon me," said the new-comer to me; "you see Mendelssohn so fills the
stage everywhere, that even David gets overlooked sometimes, don't
you, my inspired fiddler?" he added, slapping the violinist on the back.

"Yes I do," said David, "and so do the manners of all of you, for no one
introduces our singer;" and turning to me he added, "this is Mr. Robert
Schumann who divides the musical firmament of Leipzig with Mendelssohn."

"You forget to add," said Mendelssohn, "that Schumann conquers in
literature as well as in music. No one has written better musical
critiques."

"Yes, yes," grumbled David; "I wish he wouldn't do so much of it. If he
scribbled less he'd compose more. The cobbler should stick to his last,
and the musician shouldn't relinquish the music-pen for the goose
quill."

"But what of Mendelssohn himself," urged Schumann; "he, in a specia