SONGS WITHOUT WORDS. 193 



of life. The twilight deepens. There are sounds of stirring in the 

 adjoining room. I hear my hostess play a prelude to a favourite 

 ballad. She plays charmingly, and sings well ; this last the highest 

 expression of vocal development, and one which served doubtless in 

 days gone by to captivate the heart of my friend the host, as in re- 

 verse order the cricket's chirp enchants Miss Acheta, or as the sweet 

 song of Mr. Nightingale tells of his love for the listening beauty. 

 Very good. I shall wipe my pen. Now for "songs with words." 

 Good-night. 



