“I am very fond of music, and I play and sing in a very small way,” was the modest answer. “I hope we shall hear you presently,” Mrs. Baines said grandly, and then, evidently feeling that she had taken quite enough notice of Miss Dunlop, she turned to her niece. “My dear Florence,” she said, “I think Mr. Wimple is charming. He has one of the most expressive countenances I ever beheld.” “Oh, Mrs. Baines, do you really think so?” Ethel Dunlop exclaimed. “Certainly I do.” And Mrs. Baines turned her back. “Florence, are not you of my opinion?” “Well, Aunt Anne, I hardly know——” And happily the entrance of the men prevented any further discussion. Somehow conversation flagged a little, and silence threatened to fall on the party. Florence felt uneasy. “Are we to have some music?” Walter asked presently. In these days music after dinner, unless it is very excellent or there is some special reason for introducing it, is generally a flag of distress, a sign that dulness is near. Florence knew it, and looking at Ethel tried to cover it by asking for a song. “Ethel sings German songs delightfully, Aunt Anne,” she said; “I think you would enjoy listening to her.” “I should enjoy listening to any friend of yours,” the old lady answered. But Miss Dunlop pleaded hoarseness and did not stir. Mr. Wimple roused himself a little. “I am sure Mrs. Baines plays,” he said, standing before her. Aunt Anne gave a long sigh. “My playing days are over,” she answered. “Oh no, Aunt Anne,” laughed Walter, “we cannot allow you to make that excuse.” In a moment she had risen. “I never make excuses, Walter,” she said proudly; “if it is your wish—if it will give you pleasure I will touch the keys again, though it is long since I brought myself even to sit down before an instrument.” She took her place at the piano; she pulled out her handkerchief, not one of the black-bordered ones that Florence had sent her a week ago, but a dainty one of lawn and lace, and held it for a moment to her forehead; then suddenly, with a strange vibrating touch that almost startled her listeners, she began to play “Oft in the stilly night.” Only for a moment did the fire last, her fingers grew feeble, they missed the notes, she shook her head dreamily. “I forget—I forget them all,” she said to herself rather than to any one else, and then quickly recovering she looked round and apologized. “It is so long,” she said, “and I forget.” She began softly some variations on “I know a bank,” and played them through to the end. When they were finished she rose and, with a little old-fashioned bow to the piano, turned to Florence, and, saying, with a sweet and curious dignity, “Thank you, my dear, and your friends too, for listening to me,” went back to her seat. Mr. Wimple was near her chair, he bent down to her. “You gave us a great treat,” he said, as if he were stating a scientific fact.