was drawing them to the parlor. As this room was being lighted I saw our
guest, evidently through force of an early habit, turn a critical glance
to the music on the piano, and as quickly withdraw it. Both of us motioned
her solicitously to the music-stool.

"No, I do not play."

"Then you sing."

"No, not now, any more yet." But when she had let us tease her a wee bit
just for one little German song, she went to the instrument, talking
slowly as she went, and closing the door in the entomologist's direction
as she talked.

"Siss a great vhile I haf not done siss," she concluded, as her fingers
began to drift over the keys, and then she sang, very gently, even
guardedly, but oh, so sweetly!

We were amazed. Here, without the slightest splendor of achievement or
adventure, seemed to be the most incredible piece of real life we had ever
seen. Why, I asked myself, was this woman so short even of German friends
as to be condemned to a seamstress's penury? And my best guess was to lay
it to the zeal of her old-fashioned--and yet not merely old-fashioned-
wifehood, which could accept no friendship that did not unqualifiedly
accept him; and he?--Goodness!

When she ceased neither listener spoke; the tears were in our throats. She
bent her head slightly over the keys, and said, "I like to sing you
anusser." We accepted eagerly, and she sang again. There was nothing of
personal application in either song, yet now, near the end, where there