“You said Mrs. Bright had been a teacher in the South.  What part of the South was it?” inquired Mrs. Blumenthal.

“She went to Savannah to be nursery governess to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s little girl,” replied he.  “But part of the time she was on an island where Mr. Fitzgerald had a cotton plantation.  I dare say you’ve heard of him, for he married the daughter of that rich Mr. Bell who lives in your street.  He died some years ago; at least they suppose he died, but nobody knows what became of him.”

Flora pressed her husband’s arm, and was about to inquire concerning the mystery, when Mrs. Delano came, hand in hand with Rosa and Lila, to say that she had ordered the carriage and wanted them to be in readiness to take a drive.

They returned to a late dinner; and when they rose from a long chat over the dessert, Mr. Bright was not to be found, and his wife was busy; so further inquiries concerning Mr. Fitzgerald’s fate were postponed.  Mr. Blumenthal proposed a walk on Round Hill; but the children preferred staying at home.  Rosa had a new tune she wanted to practise with her guitar; and her little sister had the promise of a story from Mamita Lila.  So Mr. Blumenthal and his wife went forth on their ramble alone.  The scene from Round Hill was beautiful with the tender foliage of early spring.  Slowly they sauntered round from point to point, pausing now and then to look at the handsome villages before them, at the blooming peach-trees, the glistening river, and the venerable mountains, with feathery crowns of violet cloud.

Suddenly a sound of music floated on the air; and they stood spell-bound, with heads bowed, as if their souls were hushed in prayer.  When it ceased, Mr. Blumenthal drew a long breath, and said, “Ah! that was our Mendelssohn.”

“How exquisitely it was played,” observed his wife, “and how in harmony it was with these groves!  It sounded like a hymn in the forest.”

They lingered, hoping again to hear the invisible musician.  As they leaned against the trees, the silver orb of the moon ascended from the horizon, and rested on the brow of Mount Holyoke; and from the same quarter whence Mendelssohn’s “Song without Words” had proceeded, the tones of “Casta Diva” rose upon the air.  Flora seized her husband’s arm with a quick, convulsive grasp, and trembled all over.  Wondering at the intensity of her emotion, he passed his arm tenderly round her waist and drew her closely to him.  Thus, leaning upon his heart, she listened with her whole being, from the inmost recesses of her soul, throughout all her nerves, to her very fingers’ ends.  When the sounds died away, she sobbed out:  “O, how like Rosa’s voice!  It seemed as if she had risen from the dead.”

He spoke soothingly, and in a few minutes they descended the hill and silently wended their way homeward.  The voice that had seemed to come from another world invested the evening landscape with mystical solemnity.  The expression of the moon seemed transfigured, like a great clairvoyant eye, reflecting light from invisible spheres, and looking out upon the external world with dreamy abstraction.