“Do they flourish here?”
“Oh, yes! sometimes.”
“I heard some charming singing, early this morning; it was a woman’s voice. Faustina never sang clearer! Were you the singer, Mademoiselle Bach?”
Caroline blushed, and said—“Not I—it was my mother.”
“Your mamma! C’est vrai! Friedemann told me she sings admirably. But you sing too, mademoiselle?”
“I hum a little, sometimes, like all girls when they are cheerful—but none of my father’s daughters are musical—and he says we have neither taste nor talent to learn it properly.”
“Perhaps you understand it by intuition, already.”
Caroline looked at the lieutenant, and replied with a smile—“you are a good guesser, M. Scherbitz.”
“No great guessing is required; there are many young ladies, who do not sing or play according to rules, yet who, nevertheless, are by no means unmusical.”
“Oh! I love music—I love it dearly! Brother Friedemann knows that—and it is therefore we are so dear to each other. But it is a very peculiar kind of music that I mean.”