name of the song is Love."
"Now sing me the melody, Maria," said Agnes; and Maria sang, and Agnes listened, and then they sang it together until it was perfect. "Just once more," said Maria, and as they reached the close of the verse, a strong, musical voice joined in the refrain, and then Harry came into the room singing it.
"Harry! Harry!" cried Agnes, joyfully.
"And the name of the song is Love!" he answered, taking Agnes in his arms and kissing the word on her lips. Then he turned with a glowing face to Maria, and she bent her head a little proudly, and remained silent. But soon Agnes went away to order coffee for her visitor, and then Harry sat down by Maria, and asked to see the song, and their hands met above the passionate words, and the dumb letters became vocal. They sang them over and over, their clear, fresh voices growing softer and softer, till, almost in a whisper of delight, they uttered the last word "Love!" Then he looked at her as only a lover can look, and she looked at him like one who suddenly awakens. Her past was a sleep, a dream; that moment her life began. And she had all the tremors that mark the beginnings of life; a great quiet fell upon her, and she wanted to go into solitude and examine this wonderful experience. For Harry had stirred one of those unknown soul depths that only Love ventures down to.
When Agnes returned she said she must go home, her grandmother was not well; and then she blundered into such a number of foolish excuses as made Agnes look curiously, perhaps anxiously, at her. And for several days she continued these excuses; she sent Neil with messages and letters, but she did not go to her friend. There was something wrong between them, and Maria finally threw the blame upon Agnes.
"Any one may see that she is deceiving either Harry or uncle Neil--and I hate a deceiver. It is not fair--I am sure if Harry knew about uncle--if he was not engaged to Agnes--Oh, no! I must not think of him. Poor uncle Neil! If Agnes treats him badly, I shall never forgive her, never!"
Thus, and so on, ran her reflections day after day, and yet she had not the courage to go and talk the matter out with Agnes. But she noticed an unusual exaltation in her uncle's manner; he dressed with more than his usual sombre richness; he seemed to tread upon air, and though more silent than ever, a smile of great sweetness was constantly on his lips. And one afternoon as Maria sat at her tambour frame, Madame entered the parlor hastily, looking almost frightened.
"Do you hear him? Your uncle, I mean. Do you hear him, Maria?" she cried. "He is singing. He must be fey. I haven't heard him sing since he was a lad going to Paul Gerome's singing class. It's uncanny! It frightens me! And what is he singing, Maria?"
And Maria lifting a calm face 

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