heart, and she sank her head on the soft satin pillow to
dream ; they were dreams of bliss, of love, and of Ferdinand Beresford. The voice of her maid aroused her
with the intelligence that the Harpiste had returned
according to her orders, and waited any commands Miss
Ilderton wished to give.
"Bring her hither," said Ida ; "I will converse with her, it will amuse me ; and let her harp be brought also ; I wish to hear her sing : " and with a ready alacrity the waiting woman obeyed, and in a moment the Harpiste stood in the luxurious boudoir of Ida. There was a great difference between the beauty of the young noblesse, and the striking face of the wandering child of song ; it was not a beauty to be painted and hung in a print-shop, to attract the notice of passers-by, nor to be sculptured for its fine regularity. No ; it was a beauty in which shone mind, and feeling, and firmness, combined with easy good nature and vigorous thought. Her face was shaded by a white cap, with large borders falling on her dark cheeks, and her hair, of glossy chesnut, was braided beneath ; her forehead was high, and her eyes of dark blue. They had once been merry, laughing eyes ; but their look of joy was gone ; and save when she smiled with a strange, brilliant smile, her face wore no joyous expression. Her dress was of coarse blue merino, and a large shawl of red and black plaid completed her attire. Yet she stood before Ida, not boldly but easily, and seemed to look without any feelings of admiration or wonder on the luxury which surrounded the heiress, while Ida addressed her in pure Parisian as follows :
" You are a native of la belle France ; is it not so ?" "Yes, my lady," was the timid reply. " Have you been long away from home-long in England ?" "I have no home, my lady ; I have been three weeks in this land," was the answer. " I have not had a home for years ; this is the only relic now remaining (and she placed her hand on her harp ,) and it gains me my bread." " You are not self-taught," asked Ida ; " you play too well for that. How long have you practised the harp ?" " I learnt my art from one ofthe finest masters France possessed, and it is years since I commenced. I do not play so well as I used ; my fingers seem stiff and less pliant than formerly. So many things are recalled to my mind by the tones of my harp, that sometimes I would rather weep than sing." " Have you a father or mother with you ?" asked Ida feelingly ; for she felt interested in the girl. "I have neither now, my lady. A mother I never knew ; a father I had, but his love is forfeited, and I am quite alone." 66 Why did you leave your home, poor exile ? was your father's displeasure the cause ? Have you no friends
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here ; are you quite alone ?" asked Miss Ilderton, with tears glistening in her eyes. " Oh, it is a long story, my lady, and you will condemn me I know. I have not met with such kindness for years, as I now meet with from you. No one has manifested kindness for me ; I am an outcast, wretched and alone." "Sit down there," said Ida, pointing to a velvet ottoman beside her ; " and if it grieves you cease to speak of your home. It is sufficient to know you are happy. I feel for you ; I pity you much." "Oh, no, dearest lady, I will tell you all," said the Harpiste, " lest thoughts of my unworthiness to receive your kindness steal into your bosom, and thus once more I become friendless, even as before I heard your voice. My father was tutor in the family of an Italian nobleman, and alternately resided in Italy and France, till, having completed the education of his pupils, he left them, married, and retired to the environs of Paris. I was his only child. My mother died shortly after my birth, and I grew up till the age of ten years with him alone. It was then he sent me to Paris to school, and there I learnt the harp, which now gains me my livelihood, and became the favorite pupil of a too-indulgent master. Could he see me here, the abject creature I am, would he recognize in the homeless wanderer the once happy Lucille Beranger ? No, he could not, would it were but a dream. I remained five years in Paris, and then my father recalled me, and I returned home. Oh ! how well I remember that evening, when the diligence entered my native village, and I saw my father's cottage peeping out among the trees, the summer sun setting behind the hills, and the roses twining round the casements of my long-remembered home. Beneath the porch stood my father, and beside him a person I had never seen. I thought at first it was one of his old pupils, come to visit their kind tutor ; but the face was not Italian, and the smile was too sweet to be ought but English. As soon as the diligence stopped, my father rushed forward and embraced me, and led me into the house, followed by his strange companion. This is Mademoiselle Beranger,' said the stranger, stepping forward ; 6 we wanted only the presence of a lady here to complete our happiness. We shall be too happy with Mademoiselle Lucille.' I saw my father's eyes glisten, and he smiled upon him ; then, turning to me, introduced him as his pupil, and passed a high eulogium on his kindness and talent. It seemed that my father felt lonely after I left him, and had become melancholy and desponding, when one of his former pupils came to him, and introduced an English lady of good connections but limited fortune, and asked him to educate her youngest son. My father willingly complied, and the young Englishman was to remain till his education was completed. All the morning did my father devote to study,
