"Can't you favour us, Helen?" asked Mr. Parnassus.
Helen declared that she could not sing, that she did not know any songs.
"Come, come, Helen, that's all nonsense," said the doctor, "I've heard your voice before now warbling away when you thought no one was listening to you."
"Ay, ay," said our host, "you are right, sir, she can sing when she likes as pretty a little song as ever you'd wish to hear, though I say it, that shouldn't."
"Come, Helen, don't be shy, sing away my girl," said Hardcase.
"Let us make a bargain, Helen," said McGuilp. "If you will sing a song, I will. There, you cannot refuse."
The girl's face brightened up as she stole a glance at our artist, and thus urged, began in a clear and sweet voice the following ditty:—
The Nightingale.
The nightingale sang to her love the rose,
One night when the moon was shining,
The earth was hushed in still repose,
But a heart with love was pining.
Two lovers through the misty air,
Beneath the trees were strolling,
A gallant and a lady fair,
A bell in the distance tolling.