“Yes, and from the lively style of your conversation; I have been envying your high spirits all the evening.”
“Indeed!” was the reply; “and why should you envy them?”
“Are they not an indication of happiness, and is not that an enviable possession?” returned I.
“Yes, indeed!” she replied in a low voice, but with such passionate earnestness as quite to startle me. “Is laughing, then, such an infallible indication of happiness?” she continued.
“One usually supposes so,” replied I.
To this she made no answer, unless a sigh can be called one, and, turning away, began looking over the pages of a music-book.
“Is there nothing you can recollect to sing, my dear?” asked Mrs. Coleman.
She paused for a moment as if in thought, ere she replied:—
“There is an old air, which I think I could remember; but I do not know whether you will like it. The words,” she added, glancing towards me, “refer to the subject on which we have just been speaking.”
She then seated herself at the instrument, and, after striking a few simple chords, sang, in a sweet, rich soprano, the following stanzas;—