King Murdoch and his wife eagerly disclaimed any idea of making so ungenerous a return for his kindness. At length Eudæmon (who completely saw through their shallow minds, and only spoke to obtain more freedom for their daughter) promised to continue his lucubrations.
That evening for the first time since her death, he drew from a deep recess the dust-covered harp that had once quivered in responsive melody beneath the musical touch of his fair young mother. Miranda and the Queen curiously examined the quaint instrument, and helped to disentangle and divest it of its broken strings. Eudæmon, who had often studied its mechanism, brought forth new strings he himself had manufactured, and showed Miranda where and how they should be placed.
Several evenings passed in putting the harp to rights, then the Princess under Eudæmon's magical tuition strove to place aright upon it her slender fingers. Morning, noon, and night Miranda strove to play the melodies that ever floated before her mind's eye as sung to her by Eudæmon, who placed beside her scrolls, on which the words of the songs were written out.
One of them ran thus:
Thou speak'st of to-morrow, yet seemest to sigh,
And something there gleams like a tear in thine eye,
But though the sweet days of our converse are o'er,
The friendship that binds us shall cease nevermore.
When music entrancing shall steal on thine ear,
And songs shall be sung thee thou lovest to hear,