The nightingale had escaped the pursuit,--soft, airy, bird-like, thrilled the delicious notes a moment, and then died away.

The instrument fell to the floor, and its chords snapped.

You heard that sound through the silence.

The artist looked on his kneeling child, and then on the broken chords...

"Bury me by her side," he said, in a very calm, low voice; "and THAT by mine." And with these words his whole frame became rigid, as if turned to stone.