. . . The murmuring dying notes,
That fall as soft as snow on the sea;

and

The passionate strain that, deeply going,
Refines the bosom it trembles through.

What can one say of those vague aspirations and finest thoughts which
possess the very dullest among us when such music as that which the
little girl had chosen catches us and keeps us, if only for a passing
moment, but that moment of the rarest worth and loveliness in our
unlovely lives?

What can one say of the highest music except that, like death, it is the
great leveller: it gathers us all to its tender keeping--and we rest.

The little girl ceased playing. There was not a sound to be heard;
the magic was still holding her listeners. When at last they had freed
themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to greet her.

"There is only one person who can play like that," cried the major, with
sudden inspiration--"she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew."

The little girl smiled.

"That is my name," she said, simply; and she slipped out of the room.

The next morning, at an early hour, the bird of passage took her flight