falsehood was impossible to her. She dropped her eyes; but the color
once more overspread her whole face as she answered, distinctly and
decisively, "No."

It surprised her somewhat afterward, not then--her heart was beating
too violently for her to notice any thing much--that her husband asked
her no farther question, but immediately turned the conversation to
Arthur's tea-party, in the discussion of which both were so eager to
amuse the invalid that the other subject dropped--naturally, it appeared;
anyhow, effectually.

But when the two other children came in to see Arthur, he again
recurred to her singing, which had evidently taken a strong hold upon
his imagination.

"Papa, you must hear her. Mother, sing the song with pretty little
twiddle-twiddles in it--far prettier than Aunt Henrietta's things--
something about warbling in her breath."

"Oh no, not that," said Christian, shrinking involuntarily. What from?
Was it from a ghostly vision of the last time she had sung it--that is
properly, to a piano-forte accompaniment, played by fingers that had
afterward caught hold of _her_ trembling fingers, and been a living
comment on the song? It was that exquisite one from Handel's "Acis
and Galatea:"

_"Love in her eyes sits playing,
And sheds delicious death;
Love on her lips is straying,
And warbling in her breath."_