The Press., 1894-02-22
(Written for the Hartford Times by Myra s. De-
 lano)
 EASTER MUSIC.

when Parepa was over here she was everywhere the peoples idol. The great opera houses in all our cities and towns were thronged. There were none to crit, else or carp. Her young, rich, grand voice was beyond compare. Its glorious tones are remembered with an enthusiasm like that which greeted her when she sang.
 Her company played in New York dur ing the Easter holidays, and I, as an old friend, claimed some of her leisure hours. We were friends in Italy, and this Easter day was to be spent with me.
 At II in the morning she sang at one of the large churches; I waited for her, and at last we two were alone in my snug lit tie rooms. At noon the sky was overcast and grey. Down came the snow, whiten- ing the streets and roofs. The wind swept icy breaths from the water as it came up from the bay, and rushed past the city spires, and over tall buildings, whirling around us the snow and storm.
 We had hurried home, shut and fasten- ed our blinds, drawn close the curtains, and piled coal higher on the glowing grate. We had taken off our wraps and now sat close to the cheery fire, for 6 while afternoons blessed enjoyment
 Parepa said, Mary, this is perfect rest! We shall be. quite alone for foul hours"
 "Yes, four long hours !" I replied "No rehearsals, no engagements, No body knows where you are! If the whol, company died they couldn't let yo, know!"
 Parepa laughed merrily at this idea. "Dinner shall be served in this room and I won't allow even the servant t, look at you!'' I said.
 She clasped her dimpled hands togeth CT, like child in enjoyment, and ther sprang up to roll the little counter-tabl' ] nearer the grate. "This is better fire than we have at home," she said. "Dc you remember the scaldino that day wher took you to our museum, and you made great fun of our pot of coals?"
 "Yes, and how absurd your Italian fires are? almost perished."
 Parepa leaned her head back against the chair and said in low voice: "Mary 1 that was good Sunday in Venice, wher my faithful old Luiga rowed us round tt St.. Marks to early mass, and"
 "Oh! how lovely it was, interrupted ''It seemed like dream-how we slipped l through the little canal under the Bridg, | of Signs, then walked through the court yard of the Doge's palace into the grea solemn shadows of St. Marks. I shal never forget the odor of the incense ant the robed priests, and the slow intonings Such crowds of people, all kneeling!" Parepa looked intently into my eye and laughed softly in her queer littl, Italian way. "And," she went on, "thel you took me to your church where you priest read song out of book, and tn men and women were very sober looking and sang so slow, why, can sing tha little song now. I have never forgotten it."
 | Parepa folded her hands exactly lik the Scotch Presbyterian folk of the smal English church in Venice on the Gram canal, and sang slowly one verse of ou old hymn, "When all Thy mercies, oh my God" to the old tune of Canaan"
 "How everybody stared at you whe you joined in and sang," I said.
 The snow had now turned into sleet A great chill fell over the whole city. w looked out of our windows, peeping thro the shutters, and pitying the people a they rushed past.
 A sharp rap on my door. John thrus in note.
 My Dear Friend: Can you come? An nie has gone. She said you would b sure to come to her funeral. She spok of you to the last. She will be buried at 4
 I laid the poor little plotted note i Parepa's hand. How it stormed! w |