When they arrived at their lodgings, Flora exclaimed:  “O Mamita Lila, we have heard such heavenly music, and a voice so wonderfully like Rosa’s!  I don’t believe I shall sleep a wink to-night.”

“Do you mean the Aunt Rosa I was named for?” inquired her daughter.

“Yes, Rosen Blumen,” replied her mother; “and I wish you had gone with us, that you might have an idea what a wonderful voice she had.”

This led to talk about old times, and to the singing of various airs associated with those times.  When they retired to rest, Flora fell asleep with those tunes marching and dancing through her brain; and, for the first time during many years, she dreamed of playing them to her father, while Rosabella sang.

The next morning, when the children had gone out to ramble in the woods with their father, her memory being full of those old times, she began to say over to the parrot some of the phrases that formerly amused her father and Rosabella.  The old bird was never talkative now; but when urged by Flora, she croaked out some of her familiar phrases.

“I’m glad we brought pauvre Manon with us,” said Mrs. Blumenthal.  “I think she seems livelier since she came here.  Sometimes I fancy she looks like good Madame Guirlande.  Those feathers on her head make me think of the bows on Madame’s cap.  Come, jolie Manon, I’ll carry you out doors, where the sun will shine upon you.  You like sunshine, don’t you, Manon?”

She took the cage, and was busy fastening it on the bough of a tree, when a voice from the street said, “Bon jour, jolie Manon!”

The parrot suddenly flapped her wings, gave a loud laugh, and burst into a perfect tornado of French and Spanish phrases:  “Bon jour!  Buenos dias!  Querida mia!  Joli diable!  Petit blanc!  Ha! ha!”

Surprised at this explosion, Mrs. Blumenthal looked round to discover the cause, and exclaiming, “Oh ciel!” she turned deadly pale, and rushed into the house.

“What is the matter, my child? inquired Mrs. Delano, anxiously.

“O Mamita, I’ve seen Rosa’s ghost,” she replied, sinking into a chair.

Mrs. Delano poured some cologne on a handkerchief, and bathed her forehead, while she said, “You were excited last night by the tune you used to hear your sister sing; and it makes you nervous, dear.”

While she was speaking, Mrs. Bright entered the room, saying, “Have you a bottle of sal volatile you can lend me?  A lady has come in, who says she is a little faint.”

“I will bring it from my chamber,” replied Mrs. Delano.  She left the room, and was gone some time.  When she returned, she found Mrs. Blumenthal leaning her head on the table, with her face buried in her hands.  “My child, I want you to come into the other room,” said Mrs. Delano.  “The lady who was faint is the famous Mrs. King, from Boston.  She is boarding on Round Hill, and I suppose it was her voice you heard singing.  She said she had seen a lady come into this house who looked so much like a deceased relative that it made her feel faint.  Now don’t be excited, darling; but this lady certainly resembles the sketch you made of your sister; and it is barely possible—­”