"Oh! Marian, do you ever sing now?" I cried. "And your dear old guitar—have you got it still?"
"Yes, I have never parted with it. Why, Louie, you have a guitar here! Is it yours?"
"No; that is Ronald's. Ah, Marian, how I should like to hear you sing again! Can't you remember any of your old songs? Sing one of Moore's—something sweet and old-fashioned—I am so tired of all our ballads of to-day. There should not be too many deep thoughts in verses that are written for music. A little sentiment—a little pathos—a dash of hope—that is all that we want to sing about. There are poems that are inscribed on our hearts with the point of a diamond, but we do not care to sing them."
While I rambled on, Marian was running her fingers over the strings; and suddenly I paused and started. She was playing that strange, soft melody that Ronald had played so often; and into her eyes there stole that musing look which always came into his, whenever he played this air.
"What is that?" I asked, eagerly. "Ronald plays it sometimes, but he never can think where he first heard it."
"I am trying to remember," she answered in a thoughtful tone. The air was repeated; sweet and tender and gay, it seemed to charm Marian just as it had charmed us. She stopped at last with a baffled expression on her face.
"There are words set to that air," she said, "but I cannot recall them now. Who was it that ever played and sung this melody to me? I wish I knew."
"That is what Ronald is always saying," I remarked. And then I told her the story of poor Monsieur Léon, and the way in which the guitar had come into our hands.
"I will play the air once more," she said, taking up the guitar again. "It is very simple, but wonderfully sweet. Now listen, and perhaps the words will come to me."
But they did not come.