unrelieved stillness, they laughed, and trod the stiff dry ferns and soft
mosses once more. At last they came to a decided halt, when the
proposition to return caused Adela to come up to Mr. Pericles and say to
him, "Now, you must confess! You have prohibited her from singing to-
night so that we may continue to be mystified. I call this quite
shameful of you!"

And even as Mr. Pericles was protesting that he was the most mystified of
the company, his neck lengthened, and his head went round, and his ear
was turned to the sky, while he breathed an elaborate "Ah!" And sure
enough that was the voice of the woods, cleaving the night air, not
distant. A sleepy fire of early moonlight hung through the dusky fir-
branches. The voice had the woods to itself, and seemed to fill them and
soar over them, it was so full and rich, so light and sweet. And now, to
add to the marvel, they heard a harp accompaniment, the strings being
faintly touched, but with firm fingers. A woman's voice: on that could
be no dispute. Tell me, what opens heaven more flamingly to heart and
mind, than the voice of a woman, pouring clear accordant notes to the
blue night sky, that grows light blue to the moon? There was no flourish
in her singing. All the notes were firm, and rounded, and sovereignly
distinct. She seemed to have caught the ear of Night, and sang confident
of her charm. It was a grand old Italian air, requiring severity of tone
and power. Now into great mournful hollows the voice sank steadfastly.
One soft sweep of the strings succeeded a deep final note, and the
hearers breathed freely.

"Stradella!" said the Greek, folding his arms.

The ladies were too deeply impressed to pursue their play with him. Real
emotions at once set aside the semi-credence they had given to their own