south side higher than on the north or west, I followed it and drew near the top. As I got closer, I heard some one singing. "By Jove," said I to myself, "the women of this country have sweet voices!"—indeed, this was by no means the first time I had noticed the fact. I listened, and as I drew nearer to the top of the hill, I took care not to make any noise which might disturb the singer. It was an odd sensation to stand in the shadow of the hill-top, on that September day, and listen to Ave Maria sung by the unknown voice of an unseen singer. I made a feeble joke all to myself:—
"My experience of the girls of the West is that of vox et præterea nihil."
There was an infinity of pathos in the voice—some sweet, sad yearning, as though the earthly spirit was singing with an unearthly voice—and the idea came on me with a sense of conviction that some deep unhappiness underlay that appeal to the Mother of Sorrows. I listened, and somehow felt guilty. It almost seemed that I was profaning some shrine of womanhood, and I took myself to task severely in something of the following strain:—
"That poor girl has come to this hill top for solitude. She thinks she is alone with Nature and Nature's God, and pours forth her soul freely; and you, wretched, tainted man, break in on the sanctity of her solitude—of her prayer. For shame! for shame!"
Then—men are all hypocrites!—I stole guiltily forward to gain a peep at the singer who thus communed with
