EASTER-EVEN SERENADE.
When, late in the evening, John sent up word that he was waiting for us, I hesitated; but Sara rose and said, “Come,” in her calm, every-day manner, and I went.
“What will it be like, Mr. Hoffman?” I said, as soon as we reached the street, in order to make talk.
“Principally singing,” he replied, “according to an old custom of the Minorcans. On Easter-even the young men assemble with musical instruments, and visit the houses of all their friends. Before they begin singing they tap on the shutter, and if they are welcome there is an answering tap within. Then follows the long hymn they call Fromajardis, always the same seven verses, with a chorus after each verse, all in the Minorcan dialect. Next comes a recitative soliciting the customary gifts, a bag is held under the window, and the people of the house open the shutter, and drop into it eggs, cheese, cakes, and other dainties, while the young men acknowledge their bounty with a song, and then depart.”
We followed the singers for an hour, listening to the ancient song, which sounded sweetly through the narrow streets in the midnight stillness. My two companions talked on as usual, but I could not. I was haunted by that picture of ten years ago.
Easter-Sunday morning I went to church alone; Sara would not go with me. John Hoffman sat near me. I mentioned it when I returned home.
“I hate such religion as his,” said Sara. She was lying on the couch, with her defiant eyes fixed on the blank wall opposite.
“Dear child,” I said, “do not speak in that tone. It is ten years since you knew him, and indeed I do think he is quite earnest and sincere. No doubt he has changed—”
“He has not changed,” interrupted Sara; “he is the same cold, hard, proud—”