gone out of the leaves of the volume, and I continued turning them over
listlessly, glancing at intervals at the beautiful girl, who was also
like one of the pages before me, wonderful to look at and hard to
understand. In a distant part of the room I saw her place some cushions
on the floor, and settle herself on them to do her work.

The sun had set by this time, and the interior was growing darker by
degrees; the fading light, however, seemed to make no difference to
those who worked or read. They appeared to be gifted with an owlish
vision, able to see with very little light. The father alone did
nothing, but still rested on his couch, perhaps indulging in a
postprandial nap. At length he roused himself and looked around him.

"There is no melody in our hearts this evening, my children," he said.
"When another day has passed over us it will perhaps be different.
To-night the voice so recently stilled in death forever would be too
painfully missed by all of us."

Some one then rose and brought a tall wax taper and placed it near him.
The flame threw a little brightness on the volume, which he now
proceeded to open; and here and there, further away, it flashed and
trembled in points of rainbow-colored light on a tall column; but the
greater part of the room still remained in twilight obscurity.

He began to read aloud, and, although he did not seem to raise his voice
above its usual pitch, the words he uttered fell on my ears with a
distinctness and purity of sound which made them seem like a melody
"sweetly played in tune." The words he read related to life and death,
and such solemn matters; but to my mind his theology seemed somewhat
fantastical, although it is right to confess that I am no judge of such