But when had he heard her sing?
When had aught so clear, so mirthful, or so young fallen from her as this; this melody, laden with life and youth and abundance, that rose and fell and floated to his ears through the half-open door of the staircase?
He crept to the staircase door and listened; yes, it was her voice, but not such as he had ever heard it.

It was her voice as he could fancy it in another life, a life in which she was as other girls, darkened by no fear, pinched by no anxiety, crushed by no contumely; such as her voice might have been, uplifted in the garden of his old home on the French border, amid bees and flowers and fresh-scented herbs.

Her voice, doubtless, it was; but it sorted so ill with the thoughts he had been thinking, that with his astonishment was mingled something of shock and of loss.

He had dreamed of dying for her or with her, and she sang! He was prepared for peril, and her voice vied with the lark's in joyous trills.
Leaning forward to hear more clearly, he touched the door.

It was ajar, and before he could hinder it, it closed with a sharp sound.