Together they sang that popular melody, bright and joyful as sunrise on a world of blossoms.  Then came a Tyrolese song, with a double voice, sounding like echoes from the mountains.  This was followed by some tender, complaining Russian melodies, novelties which Mr. Fitzgerald had brought on a preceding visit.  Feeling they were too much engrossed with each other, she said politely, “Mr. King has not yet chosen any music.”

“The moon becomes visible through the curtains,” replied he.  “Perhaps you will salute her with ‘Casta Diva.’”

“That is a favorite with us,” she replied.  “Either Flora or I sing it almost every moonlight night.”

She sang it in very pure Italian.  Then turning round on the music-stool she looked at her father, and said, “Now, Papasito querido, what shall I sing for you?”

“You know, dear, what I always love to hear,” answered he.

With gentle touch, she drew from the keys a plaintive prelude, which soon modulated itself into “The Light of other Days.”  She played and sang it with so much feeling, that it seemed the voice of memory floating with softened sadness over the far-off waters of the past.  The tune was familiar to Alfred, but it had never sung itself into his heart, as now.  “I felt as I did in Italy, listening to a vesper-bell sounding from a distance in the stillness of twilight,” said he, turning toward his host.

“All who hear Rosabella sing notice a bell in her voice,” rejoined her father.

“Undoubtedly it is the voice of a belle,” said Mr. Fitzgerald.

Her father, without appearing to notice the commonplace pun, went on to say, “You don’t know, Mr. King, what tricks she can play with her voice.  I call her a musical ventriloquist.  If you want to hear the bell to perfection, ask her to sing ‘Toll the bell for lovely Nell.’”

“Do give me that pleasure,” said Alfred, persuasively.

She sang the pathetic melody, and with voice and piano imitated to perfection the slow tolling of a silver-toned bell.  After a short pause, during which she trifled with the keys, while some general remarks were passing, she turned to Mr. Fitzgerald, who was leaning on the piano, and said, “What shall I sing for you?” It was a simple question, but it pierced the heart of Alfred King with a strange new pain.  What would he not have given for such a soft expression in those glorious eyes when she looked at him!

“Since you are in a ventriloqual mood,” answered Mr. Fitzgerald, “I should like to hear again what you played the last time I was here,—­Agatha’s Moonlight Prayer, from Der Freyschuetz.”

She smiled, and with voice and instrument produced the indescribably dreamy effect of the two flutes.  It was the very moonlight of sound.