amiability and all her mother’s charms, but not the repellent reverse of the medal.  There was no chronic moral ulcer, which might break out from time to time.  Antonia’s betrothed put in an appearance, whilst Antonia herself, fathoming with happy instinct the deeper-lying character of her wonderful father, sang one of old Padre Martini’s [Footnote:  Giambattista Martini, more commonly called Padre Martini, of Bologna, formed an influential school of music there in the latter half of the eighteenth century.  He wrote vocal and instrumental pieces both for the church and for the theatre.  He was also a learned historian of music.  He has the merit of having discerned and encouraged the genius of Mozart when, a boy of fourteen, he visited Bologna in 1770.] motets, which, she knew, Krespel in the heyday of his courtship had never grown tired of hearing her mother sing.  The tears ran in streams down Krespel’s cheeks; even Angela he had never heard sing like that.  Antonia’s voice was of a very remarkable and altogether peculiar timbre:  at one time it was like the sighing of an Aeolian harp, at another like the warbled gush of the nightingale.  It seemed as if there was not room for such notes in the human breast.  Antonia, blushing with joy and happiness, sang on and on—­all her most beautiful songs, B——­ playing between whiles as only enthusiasm that is intoxicated with delight can play.  Krespel was at first transported with rapture, then he grew thoughtful—­ still—­absorbed in reflection.  At length he leapt to his feet, pressed Antonia to his heart, and begged her in a low husky voice, “Sing no more if you love me—­my heart is bursting—­I fear—­I fear—­ don’t sing again.”

“No!” remarked the Councillor next day to Doctor R——­, “when, as she sang, her blushes gathered into two dark red spots on her pale cheeks, I knew it had nothing to do with your nonsensical family likenesses, I knew it was what I dreaded.”  The Doctor, whose countenance had shown signs of deep distress from the very beginning of the conversation, replied, “Whether it arises from a too early taxing of her powers of song, or whether the fault is Nature’s—­ enough, Antonia labors under an organic failure in the chest, while it is from it too that her voice derives its wonderful power and its singular timbre, which I might almost say transcend the limits of human capabilities of song.  But it bears the announcement of her early death; for, if she continues to sing, I wouldn’t give her at the most more than six months longer to live.”  Krespel’s heart was lacerated as if by the stabs of hundreds of stinging knives.  It was as though his life had been for the first time overshadowed by a beautiful tree full of the most magnificent blossoms, and now it was to be sawn to pieces at the roots, so that it could not grow green and blossom any more.  His resolution was taken.  He told Antonia all; he put the alternatives before her—­whether she would follow her betrothed and yield to his and the world’s seductions,