We were absorbed in this domestic picture, when suddenly we were arrested by the spell of a lovely voice, and well-remembered words fell upon our ear. It was that touching song of Lamartine's, Le Lac, so pathetic in words and music. We turned and felt thrilled and startled as we recognised the face and form that had accosted us in El Pilar and poured out her sad story.

But the face was changed. In place of the hungry pallor there was now a crimson flush; the eyes sparkled with light. Was it all due to inward fever, to the wine-cup, or to artificial aid? Not the latter, we thought. There was a beauty upon the face nothing artificial ever yet possessed. She was quietly dressed in black. It might have been the very robe she had worn in the morning, differently arranged.

We must have moved or slightly started, for at that moment she evidently recognised us. For an instant her face changed colour, her voice trembled; then she recovered herself, and apparently did not again notice us.

The very first words of the introduction had caught our ear with all the charm and familiarity of an old friend. All its dramatic power was well rendered by the singer.

"Ainsi toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages,
Dans la nuit éternelle emportés sans retour,
Ne pourrons-nous jamais sur l'océan des âges
Jeter l'ancre un seul jour?"

So it went on, to the end of the declamation. Then, after a slight pause, whilst the accompanist went through the short refrain, the soft sweet melody, the graceful, mournful words rose upon the air:

"Un soir, t'en souvient-il, nous voguions en silence,
On n'entendait au loin sur l'onde et sous les cieux,
Que le bruit des rameurs qui frappaient en cadence
Tes flôts harmonieux!
"O Lac! Rochers muets, grottes, forêt obscure,
Vous que le temps épargne, ou qu'il peut rajeunir,
Gardez de cette nuit, gardez, belle nature,
Au moins le souvenir!
"Que le vent qui gémit, le roseau qui soupire,
Que les parfums légers de ton air embaumé,
Que tout ce qu'on entend, l'on voit, ou l'on respire,
Tout dise: ils ont aimé!"

Not a word was lost. Every syllable rang out softly, distinctly, clear as a bell. We had never heard the song more beautifully sung, or greater justice done to its pathos. Every shade of sadness in its cadences was perfectly given. It was only too evident that trouble had helped the exquisite voice to its sorrowful ring. To us, who were to some extent behind the scenes of the singer's life, it was difficult to listen without emotion. We could read between the lines and knew the source of her inspiration; the deep suffering and misery that lay behind it all.

When the song was over, with its applause that grated, and the singer had retired, we felt the room had become stifling and unbearable, and went out into the night air. The streets seemed to have grown small and contracted. Something must be done for that sad life that would otherwise soon be lost in every sense of the word; yet apparently we were powerless to move in the matter. Suddenly, as though by an inspiration, we thought of the old canon, so full of sympathy and human kindness. If there could be any possible way of escape, he was the one to suggest it; and we determined to lay the whole case before him.

Thus thinking, we unconsciously found ourselves on the banks of the river. The night was clear and calm; the stars hung in the sky: the moon, brilliant and silvery, was rising behind El Pilar, showing up in magic outlines all the grace of its domes and towers. The old bridge spanned the stream, whose dark waters flowed rapidly through its seven arches.