soon weary. There was nothing like an air of any kind in it. It seemed
as if only his fingers were playing, and his mind had nothing to do
with it. It oppressed me with a sense of the common-place, which, of
all things, I hate. At length, into the midst of it, came a few notes,
like the first chirp of a sleepy bird trying to sing; only the attempt
was half a wail, which died away, and came again. Over and over again
came these few sad notes, increasing in number, fainting, despairing,
and reviving again; till at last, with a fluttering of agonized wings,
as of a soul struggling up out of the purgatorial smoke, the music-
bird sprang aloft, and broke into a wild but unsure jubilation. Then,
as if in the exuberance of its rejoicing it had broken some law of the
kingdom of harmony, it sank, plumb-down, into the purifying fires
again; where the old wailing, and the old struggle began, but with
increased vehemence and aspiration. By degrees, the surrounding
confusion and distress melted away into forms of harmony, which
sustained the mounting cry of longing and prayer. Then all the cry
vanished in a jubilant praise. Stronger and broader grew the
fundamental harmony, and bore aloft the thanksgiving; which, at
length, exhausted by its own utterance, sank peacefully, like a summer
sunset, into a grey twilight of calm, with the songs of the summer
birds dropping asleep one by one; till, at last, only one was left to
sing the sweetest prayer for all, before he, too, tucked his head
under his wing, and yielded to the restoring silence.

Then followed a pause. I glanced at Adela. She was quietly weeping.

But he did not leave the instrument yet. A few notes, as of the first
distress, awoke; and then a fine manly voice arose, singing the
following song, accompanied by something like the same music he had
already played. It was the same feelings put into words; or, at least,