amused, and rather pleased. "Mademoiselle has positive tastes in music,"
said she; "all the better."

"Yes," said the spinster, "most music is mere noise. I hate and despise
forty-nine compositions out of fifty; but the fiftieth I adore. Give me
something simple, with a little soul in it--if you can."

Ina Klosking looked at her, and observed her age and her dress, the
latter old-fashioned. She said, quietly, "Will mademoiselle do me the
honor to stand before me? I will sing her a trifle my mother taught me."

The spinster complied, and stood erect and stiff, with her arms folded.
Ina fixed her deep eyes on her, playing a liquid prelude all the time,
then swelled her chest and sung the old Venetian cauzonet, "Il pescatore
de'll' onda." It is a small thing, but there is no limit to the genius of
song. The Klosking sung this trifle with a voice so grand, sonorous, and
sweet, and, above all, with such feeling, taste, and purity, that somehow
she transported her hearers to Venetian waters, moonlit, and thrilled
them to the heart, while the great glass chandelier kept ringing very
audibly, so true, massive, and vibrating were her tones in that large,
empty room.

At the first verse that cross-grained spinster, with real likes and
dislikes, put a bony hand quietly before her eyes. At the last, she made
three strides, as a soldier marches, and fell all of a piece, like a
wooden _mannequin,_ on the singer's neck. "Take my piano," she sobbed,
"for you have taken the heart out of my body."

Ina returned her embrace, and did not conceal her pleasure. "I am very
proud of such a conquest," said she.