“But where am I?” was the reiterated demand.
“In the house of Mr. Somerville.”
“Somerville—Somerville!” I recollected to have heard that a gentleman of that name had recently taken up his residence at some distance from my father’s abode, on the opposite side of the Hudson. He was commonly known by the name of “French Somerville,” from having passed part of his early life in France, and from his exhibiting traces of French taste in his mode of living, and the arrangements of his house. In fact, it was in his pleasure-boat, which had got adrift, that I had made my fanciful and disastrous cruise. All this was simple, straightforward matter of fact, and threatened to demolish all the cobweb romance I had been spinning, when fortunately I again heard the tinkling of a harp. I raised myself in bed and listened.
“Scipio,” said I, with some little hesitation, “I heard some one singing just now. Who was it?”
“Oh, that was Miss Julia.”
“Julia! Julia! Delightful! what a name! And, Scipio—is she—is she pretty?”
Scipio grinned from ear to ear. “Except Miss Sophy, she was the most beautiful young lady he had ever seen.”
I should observe, that my sister Sophia was considered by all the servants a paragon of perfection.
Scipio now offered to remove the basket of flowers; he was afraid their odor might be too powerful; but Miss Julia had given them that morning to be placed in my room.
These flowers, then, had been gathered by the fairy fingers of my unseen beauty; that sweet breath which had filled my ear with melody had passed over them. I made Scipio hand them to me, culled several of the most delicate, and laid them on my bosom.