aren’t you?” turning to the handmaiden.  “I always used to cut my father’s hair,” she answered.  She brought a pair of glittering shears, and before she would let the Professor go she had trimmed his hair and beard as they had not been dealt with for many a day.  Everybody said the Professor looked ten years younger.  After that our little handmaiden was always called Delilah, among the talking Teacups.

The Mistress keeps a watchful eye on this young girl.  I should not be surprised to find that she was carrying out some ideal, some fancy or whim,—­possibly nothing more, but springing from some generous, youthful impulse.  Perhaps she is working for that little sister at the Blind Asylum.  Where did she learn French?  She did certainly blush, and betrayed every sign of understanding the words spoken about her in that language.  Sometimes she sings while at her work, and we have all been struck with the pure, musical character of her voice.  It is just such a voice as ought to come from that round white throat.  We made a discovery about it the other evening.

The Mistress keeps a piano in her room, and we have sometimes had music in the evening.  One of The Teacups, to whom I have slightly referred, is an accomplished pianist, and the two Annexes sing very sweetly together,—­the American girl having a clear soprano voice, the English girl a mellow contralto.  They had sung several tunes, when the Mistress rang for Avis,—­for that is our Delilah’s real name.  She whispered to the young girl, who blushed and trembled.  “Don’t be frightened,” said the Mistress encouragingly.  “I have heard you singing ‘Too Young for Love,’ and I will get our pianist to play it.  The young ladies both know it, and you must join in.”

The two voices, with the accompaniment, had hardly finished the first line when a pure, ringing, almost childlike voice joined the vocal duet.  The sound of her own voice seemed to make her forget her fears, and she warbled as naturally and freely as any young bird of a May morning.  Number Five came in while she was singing, and when she got through caught her in her arms and kissed her, as if she were her sister, and not Delilah, our table-maid.  Number Five is apt to forget herself and those social differences to which some of us attach so much importance.  This is the song in which the little maid took part: 

     Too young for love.

     Too young for love? 
     Ah, say not so! 
   Tell reddening rose-buds not to blow! 
   Wait not for spring to pass away,
   —­Love’s summer months begin with May! 
     Too young for love? 
     Ah, say not so! 
     Too young?  Too young? 
     Ah, no! no! no!

     Too young for love? 
     Ah, say not so,
   While daisies bloom and tulips glow! 
   June soon will come with lengthened day
   To practise all love learned in May. 
     Too young for love? 
     Ah, say not so! 
     Too young?  Too young? 
     Ah, no! no! no!