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up, and related to her all that had passed in the poultry-yard during the last four and twenty hours; and the pigeons fluttered about her head. Mimili said something kind to each of them, called many by their names, scolded such as were greedy, and caressed those which waited with patience till it came to their turn to be served.

Mimili then sat down, after some persuasion, to the pianoforte. I threw myself into a corner of the sofa, and silently admired her fluency and the delicacy of her touch. She first played a very difficult sonata, and then digressing from the theme of the sonata to a fantasia of her own, she lost herself in the boundless spaces of harmony. Now the instrument poured forth a powerful volume of wild sounds; presently the strain changed to a simple pastoral song; and again the soul of the lovely performer poured itself forth in a tender adagio. She ceased, and, still seated before the instrument, she hung her head, and played with the gold chains of her corset. With a heart full of the melancholy of her concluding adagio, I rose and went to her. Her large blue eyes were filled with tears. “What is the matter?” I softly asked, and kissed the hand which had produced tones so sweet from the rigid strings. “Why do you weep, Mimili?”

She shook her head, and smiled through her