"Josephine Harris," he said, very kindly, almost tenderly, "answer me one question, as candidly as it is asked. Will you?"
"You could not ask me an improper question," she replied, "and so I could have no reason for refusing to answer you. I will."
"You have been singing 'Ever of Thee,'" he went on. "Your whole heart was in it when you sung, and when you stopped your voice was broken and your eyes were full of tears. Tell me—is there a sad secret of your life connected with that song? Consider me your brother, and do not be afraid or ashamed to answer me."
"Richard Crawford, I do consider you as a brother," the young girl replied—"a dear brother, in whom I would confide as in one of my own blood. I mean to prove to you, some day, what a true sister I am. I am neither afraid or ashamed to answer your question. I have no grief or sad memory connected with 'Ever of Thee,' any more than with any other sadly beautiful piece of music with words of the same character."
"Indeed!—I thought otherwise!" said Crawford, with something of disappointment in his tone. "And yet it moves your light heart very strangely."
"It does," said Josephine Harris. "I never sing it or hear it sung without the tears gathering in my eyes, even if they do not fall."
"And you can give no reason for this peculiar feeling?"
"Oh yes," answered the young girl, "though no doubt you will laugh at my reason when you hear it."
"I think not," said Crawford. "Tell me."
"You think me very gay and merry," said Josephine. "So I am, but I suppose that I have something deeper in my nature, that 'crops out' occasionally, as the geologists say. I suppose that I am a visionary in some respects and among my visions is a love worthily fixed and fully returned. So few seem to find this, that I fear I shall miss it—either miss it altogether or find it too late. The thought is a sad one, and that song seems insensibly to blend with it. When I am singing 'Ever of Thee,' I am singing to my ideal love that may be escaping beyond the reach of my fingers forever."