Davy here returned, and we began to sing. We had a delicious hour. In that small room Clara's voice was no more too powerfully perceptible than is the sunlight in its entrance to a tiny cell,—that glory which itself is the day of heaven. She sang with the most rarefied softness, and I quite realized how infinitely she was my superior in art no less than by nature.
What we chiefly worked upon were glees, single quartet pieces, and an anthem; but last of all, Davy produced two duets for soprano and alto,—one from Purcell, the other from a very old opera, the hundred and something one of the Hamburg Kaiser, which our master had himself copied from a copy.
"Shall you sing with us in all the four-parted pieces, sir?" I ventured to ask during the symphony of this last.
"Yes, certainly; and I shall accompany you both invariably. But of all things do not be afraid, nor trouble yourselves the least about singing in company: nothing is so easy as to sing in a high room like that of the Redferns', and nothing is so difficult as to sing in a small room like this."
"I do not find it so difficult, sir," said Clara, gravely.
"That is because, Miss Benette, you have already had your voice under perfect control for months. You have been accustomed to practise nine hours a day without an instrument, and nothing is so self-supporting as such necessity."
"Yes, sir, it is very good, but not so charming as to sing with your sweet piano."
"Do you really practise nine hours a day, Miss Benette?"
"Yes, Master Auchester, always; and I find it not enough."
"But do you practise without a piano?"