perfect but God's work. He made everything complete, however scattered and disjointed. All instrumental music, of course, is imitative. There is not a tone escapes an instrument, however curious the combination, but has its original in nature; in the bird, the air, the thunders, the spheres, the water, the shell, the cavern, the echo, or in the animal voice. All motion is music, though sometimes too delicate for vulgar ears, for it crowds the atmosphere. The spider's tiniest thread is a chord from which the fingers of the air draw delicious harmony.

'There's not the smallest orb which thou beholdest
But, in its motion, like an angel sings-

Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims.
Such harmony is in immortal souls;

But whilst this muddy vesture of decay

Doth grossly close us in, we can not hear it.'"

"It is remarkable that so grave a politician should be so much alive to music," replied Sterling.

But the remark was not heeded by Belvedere. He threw open his window and drew the bow over his fiddle with magical skill. The rich tones floated through the still atmosphere, and the invisible white arms of the charmed moon caught them and carried them far, far away into the clashing realms of the ever humming stars. The only sound that broke the harmony was the unbolting of lattices all around and the throwing up of windows, for many a fair hand, with its naked arm, as it pushed open the

window blind to admit the music, allowed itself to be bathed by the cold night air.

It was the Marseilles Hymn. Belvedere seemed to be charmed with his own performance, for the verses were repeated over and over again. Sterling was lying on a sofa enraptured, so that when the strain was over he spoke not.

Turning his chair, Belvedere, with a melancholy abstracted countenance, gazed upon a covered picture on the wall, and seeming to forget that any person was present, in a slow, solemn, half-improvising manner, he played "The Last Rose of Summer," This being over he arose, went to the picture and, as he was about to remove the gauze, Ernest plucked him by the gown and Sterling retired to his chamber.

His as

Ernest was a favorite with Belvedere. sociation with Sterling was harmonized by the bewitching presence of this charming boy, who was at home equally in each of their apartments. This eminent statesman, was himself as gentle and playful as a child, always in a glee, except when at business. After the fatigues of an exciting debate, with the hoarse clamor of many voices ringing in his ears, he would hasten to his chamber, throw on his gown, lounge on his sofa, and call Ernest to his side. She was ever present to answer him. He fondled with her as if he was petting his own child; was amazed at the delicacy of her frame, the bewildering and tremulous brilliancy of her eyes. Her feminine smile struck him as remarkable. Her voice

was a girl's

and her dewy lips imparted misty sparkles to her breath. But he had not the remotest suspicions of her sex.

She plucked him by the gown: "Let me play for you," she said, as she exhibited her guitar.

Belvedere, being lost in his own abstract thoughts, was startled by this sudden appeal. But he received her kindly. "Certainly, certainly," said he, "go

on."

Ernest had been asleep. Belvedere's music had aroused her. She had thrown her little silk morning gown over her, wrapping it closely around her waist with its heavy cord. She pinned it at the neck, so that the shirt collar was accidently hid. The gown reached nearly to her feet.

She had not put on her pants for she was too eager, and her feet were covered only by her slippers. She looked very like a girl.

She played, but indifferently. She felt this and made several efforts to improve. Her nerves were agitated. Belvedere's music had thrown her into the greatest excitement. She trembled violently as she attempted to sing; tears came along with the failure and her guitar slipped out of her lap, just as Belvedere, in compassion, sat down close by her side and put his arms around her neck. She broke into convulsive sobs and hid her face in the folds of his gown.

"What's the matter, child," he exclaimed. 'Nothing."

66

"You must not weep."

"I must; I was thinking of my mother. Has Mr. Sterling told you?"

66 What?"

"Nothing," said Ernest, "but I am so happy-I have so many fathers," and she placed her arms around his neck, and through her tears poured a flood of misty light into his dewy eyes. He caressed her long; she resumed her cheerfulness and retired to her little chamber.

CHAPTER II.

Ernest's apartment was adjoining Sterling's, and was sacred to him. He never entered it without rapping at the door. Belvedere took no such precaution, not knowing the necessity, but he seldomentered it for any purpose. It was supplied with every conceivable convenience, and adorned with elegance; a prince could not have been better lodged.. Her bathing tub was a model for luxury; she could. almost swim in it, and scarcely a day passed without her indulging in the refreshing bath. She had but to turn a faucet, and warm or cold water would rush into it in abundance. She loved to hear the water pour, and would almost shout as the cold crystal. broke round her ankles. Then she would stoop to catch it on her knees, and throw it on her shoulders.. She would lie on her back and stick her toes one by one, then two at a time, into the spout, and thus

watch the stream, as it spread, in its diminished quantity, over her feet. Then she would spring around and receive the whole of the limpid current on her head. Her little shivering shouts were poetical ecstacies! It was never winter within her chamber, and this bath was a perpetual luxury. She brightened and grew round and rosy from this exer cise. It had brought flesh to her feet and arms; her shoulders were beginning a positive development.

She was thus indulging in one of these glorious antics, one morning, without having locked her door. It was most unlucky. Belvedere wanted her. Standing upright in the tub, she was gathering the long towel, almost as long as a sheet, when suddenly the door flew open, and Belvedere appeared! She uttered an audible O! and was mute and motionless! but the towel had a happy location, and she sank down into the water! Its cold arms saved her from fainting.

Belvedere, not aware of the extent of her confusion, tarried in the room, saying "You little duck, get out of that. I want you directly."

"Please go out," she said, spreading the towel over her bosom. "I'll come immediately."

The statesman retired, remembering that Cato would not allow his sons to bathe with him in the same pool.