What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Everything in the world to live for!—fame that he could not reap, love that he must not take! What was all this pother about hell as a future state? By and by things began to stir on the table: little invisible things. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. She would ignore him. He held her eyes. “Poor old Alice!” Her brother Roddy came to her and demanded tea, and asked her to state a case. Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs. “Now, there, there. .
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