cluded, only a chance sunbeam, as the wind waved the blind to and fro, wandered over the various exotics which filled the air with perfume. Amenaide, for such was her name, would recline on a pile of cushions in the midst of the little group, one of whom would read aloud, gradually learning to imitate the low melancholy tones with which she herself read.
The girls acquired more knowledge of English imaginative literature, than in the whole previous course of their lives, and when the book was closed, and they talked over the just finished poem or narrative, insensibly the taste was formed, for that of their guide was exquisite. Amenaide was one of those beings on whom nature, like a fairy, lavishes her best gifts of keen sensibility, a fine perception of the beautiful, and an intuitive feeling of the right. Perhaps her views of life were too morbid, but her companions had enough cheerfulness to counterbalance any undue tinge of sadness given by one who had obviously suffered much. Then—for they had all the sweet voice, and fine-toned ear, which must be a charmed birthright, as no art can ever give it—they delighted to catch from her the Scottish and Italian airs, which she sang with an expression, the very meaning of their wild melody.
She would often talk to them of Italy and India, but with her childhood her remembrances seemed to stop; she never talked of any other portion of her life. Neglected and unloved, as these worse than orphan
