As she did so, a line of a song escaped from her lips with a low, melancholy, but still rapturous cadence-- 'His heart is at his office, his heart is _always_ there.' "'Oh, Mr.Macassar, is that you ?' she exclaimed.

She struggled to rise, but, finding herself unequal to the effort, she sank back again on a chair, dropped her lute on a soft footstool, and then buried her face in her hands.

It was dreadful for Macassar to witness such agony.
"'Is anything the matter ?' said he.
"'The matter!' said she.

'Ah! ah!' "'I hope you are not sick ?' said he.
"'Sick!' said she.

'Well, I fear I am very sick.' "'What is it ?' said he.