At last Lilian could bear it no longer; she rose and, with heightened color, and a dangerous light in her eyes, walked to the piano. “Won’t you sing something, Annie?” Her sister-in-law at once complied, and, before she had finished the first verse, Lilian had diverted the colonel’s attention from all but herself. The song ended, Annie rose, and, her cheeks still flushed with the excitement of playing her best, slipped into the cool conservatory, murmuring the last words of her song still softly to herself. She had not been there two minutes before George joined her. “You don’t mind smoke, Annie, do you?” “No; besides, I am going back into the drawing-room.” “Don’t go yet. It is much nicer out here. And Harry has a quarrelsome fit on and would disgust you.” That instantly checked her steps. Harry’s bursts of childish petulance were among her greatest trials. She turned with an impatient sigh again to the flowers. “You played beautifully to-night, much better than you ever play for any of us.” “Colonel Richardson understands music.” “While we understand only drinking and fighting; that is what you mean, isn’t it?” “Oh, no, it is not! You understand a great many things which I know nothing about--how to tease a person to death, for instance,” said she, with weary petulance. “That is unkind,” said George, quietly. “Never mind; I won’t reproach you now, when you are tired and excited by your own playing.” She looked up at him with some surprise. “It is astonishing that such a boor as I should have noticed that, isn’t it, and that I should know the difference between the half-mechanical playing of pretty tunes and music full of passion and feeling, like that you gave Colonel Richardson to-night.” “I did not know you liked music,” said she, in a low, troubled voice. “You never took the trouble to inquire; did you? But even among the ‘semi-civilized’--to quote some words I heard you use to-night--there may be capabilities for something better, may there not?” Annie hung her head in confusion. He spoke quite gently, and looked down at her as if he were hurt, not angry. “I am sorry--I spoke without thinking,” she said, in an unsteady voice. “You were right; I am very tired, and that makes me cross and--and foolish. But I won’t play mechanically to you again. I will find out what you like best, and learn to play that as well as I possibly can; and I’m so sorry you were hurt by my rude speech!” She held out her hand to him, to see whether he had forgiven her; he took it, held it in the warm pressure of his, and finally kissed the little fingers two or three times before letting them go. “You are a dear little creature, and I should like you to insult me every day for the pleasure of forgiving you. But that is too much to hope for; you won’t do more than ignore me.”