'"
"For the sake of old times, I trust you were a little sorry to so read
it," he said, sadly, for the tone hurt him.
"Sorry? yes, I was sorry. Who, indeed, of your friends would not be?"
"Who, indeed?" he repeated: "I am afraid the one whose regret I should
most desire would sorrow the least."
"It is very like," she answered, with seeming
carelessness,--"disappointment is the rule of life."
This would not do. He was getting upon dangerous ground. He would change
the theme, and prevent any farther speech till he was better master of
it. He begged for some music. She sat down at once and played for him;
then sang at his desire. Rich as she was in the gifts of nature, her
voice was the chief,--thrilling, flexible, with a sympathetic quality
that in singing pathetic music brought tears, though the hearer
understood not a word of the language in which she sang. In the old time
he had never wearied listening, and now he besought her to repeat for
him some of the dear, familiar songs. If these held for her any
associations, he did not know it; she gave no outward sign,--sang to him
as sweetly and calmly as to the veriest stranger. What else had he
expected? Nothing; yet, with the unreasonableness of a lover, was
disappointed that nothing appeared.
Taking up a piece at random, without pausing to remember the words, he
said, spreading it before her, "May I tax you a little farther? I am
greedy, I know, but then how can I help it?"
It was the song of the Princess.
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