"Then we are connections," said the other,

16 on the father's side.

And yet it seems as if I had other and better knowledge of you. I feel irresistibly drawn toward you."

"It is possible that we have met," replied the student, and now his soul-nature was at least passive. "Your voice has something in it familiar to me." Here spoke the sound that inhabited the portrait in oil of the Professor's grandfather:

"I am here," said he, "and here I mean to stay. I am from the pitch note of the piano. I was received this evening just long enough to say I was born and then I was dismissed. So I have come here where I can see everything that goes on in the room."

"Hurrah! hurrah! on! charge!"

وو

"What's that? what's that? asked the student. "I know that voice."

"It's only the Zouave," said the sound that inhabited the portrait of Mozart. "He is near me. I can see him with the great feather behind him. He has broken out before in that fashion. Such a sound has taken possession of him. I am from the tuning of the violin, nor can I expect ever again to find the home that I have been driven from. I have a plan. This has been an unusual even

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ing, and, for a wonder, we are all together still; I propose that we now celebrate our good fortune."

"That pleases me," said the sound that inhabited the portrait of the Professor's grandfather, "and I suggest that each in turn tell his story or sing his song."

“Hurrah! hurrah! on! charge!"

"Do you choose to be quiet!" said the student's neighbor. "Have you no manners? That was a good suggestion. Let us take turns and let the sound that proposed it, being no doubt the oldest, preside and call on each in his place." This was agreed upon, and the sound that inhabited the portrait of the Professor's grandfather, commenced by saying that he had no story to tell. He would have no objections to giving his autobiography but his life had been very uneventful. He could only say that he had tried to live at peace with all; his lot was humble though he came of

good family.

When the student heard this he knew not what to think. His soul-nature, feebly as it asserted itself, yet bore witness to a recollection of this same story which it had some time framed. If it could it would have laughed at the coincidence. The sound that dwelt in the

portrait of Mozart was now called upon and thus spoke :

"There was a child that was a dwarf. His father had cast him aside but his mother loved him still. He was the first-born and had his father's face, but most his mother's. Then followed brothers and sisters. He never grew, but they became beautiful youths and maidens, and he was their servant. No one noticed him except for his oddness of appearance, but all praised his brothers and sisters, and rightly, for they were indeed beautiful; and the little dwarf was as pleased as if he himself had been praised. He was a good servant, but no one loved him or cared for him except his mother. His brothers and sisters would never call him brother, yet he was happy."

If the student before was astonished at the coincidence between the words spoken and some past thought or experience of his own, now he was doubly amazed and his soul-nature, rendered curious, was excited so far as its narrow limits allowed, for still his sound-nature prevailed. He said nothing, however, and in its turn spoke a sound that occupied a copy of Palmer's marble Spring. It announced itself as from one of Mendelssohn's songs without words and it did nothing but breathe, yet so

sweet was the breath of this sound that each heard for itself a separate song perfectly distinct, and so all were satisfied. The student also heard one, and this also was to him as an old melody.

This is what the sound that dwelt in the image of the Zouave said, even before it was called upon:

"Hurrah! the bar of steel is dull in the sun, but the armorer pounds it and shapes it, sharpens it, makes it to shine. Now 'tis a sword! how it gleams in the sun with its edge so keen! what shall it cut?

"The youth and the maiden part at the garden-gate; she with tears but he with joy; the sword is his. O brave sword! has it cut these two? wait and see.

"Then comes the battle. How the sword fares! how the enemy fall! O dashing youth with the brave, bright sword! all the day long he fights and the good sword glistens.

"Then comes sunset on the battle-field and at the garden-gate. Hurrah! hurrah! on! charge!"

"That is not well," said the presiding sound. "I thought we should have heard the rest, but you began all over again.”

"Is not our turn come?" asked the chil

dren-sounds, and then they told amusing stories one of how he was overturned in a sleigh; another of going bird's nesting; another of evening sports, and so on. There was great glee over this part, but when they were through, the presiding sound called upon the student's neighbor that had first accosted him, and he spoke in this wise:

"The snow is on the ground. The sky above is of burnished steel, set with golden stars. My breath stands stiff in the mid air. There is no voice, for the earth is dead and the shroud is on it. The snow is so deep that the grave-stones cannot be seen in the city of the dead. What way of escape is there? The sky is shut tight round the earth. If we dig through the snow the ground is like stone. Shall we climb the steel firmament? Let us try; perchance we may gain the stars. But there is nothing there. Everything is in us. The earth is stone dead and the sky is metal. Let it be so. Is there nothing but winter?"

"That is no story at all," said the presiding sound," and it is no song, and not at all appropriate. Now let us hear what you have to say, and you shall be the last." And he turned and nodded to the sound that dwelt in the picture of the little girl sewing. "You are to