He then immediately asked her a question in French. She smiled brightly, and answered it on the instant. He asked another, and soon they were in a lively controversy, which was like Choctaw to poor Mattie, who was anxious to get home. “Do you speak any other language? Can you speak Italian?” “A _piacere_,” Brownie responded, in liquid tones, which, being interpreted, means, “at pleasure.” “And German?” “I will not say I can speak it as fluently as the others, although I understand it, and can read at sight in the language. But its guttural tones never had that attraction for me that the more musical languages of Italy and France have.” “Are you musical?” demanded the old man, abruptly, after a few moments’ thought. “Yes, sir, I am passionately fond of music,” returned Brownie, becoming somewhat embarrassed at being so closely questioned. “I fear you think I am very presuming, my young friend,” he said, noticing her confusion, “but I have a very particular reason for asking you these questions; and now, if you care to humor an old man, will you come into the music-room yonder and let me hear you play a little?” Brownie had ached to get hold of a piano ever since leaving her dear old home, yet she shrank from displaying her accomplishments in so public a place. Still, the old gentleman was so courteous, and seemed so really interested in her, that she disliked to refuse him, and bowing assent, she beckoned to Mattie, and followed him to the music-room. To her intense relief, she found it was empty, and sitting down at the piano, she began lightly running her rosy fingers over the white keys. The tones of the instrument inspired her in a moment, and she soon lost all thought of self and her listener in her intense enjoyment of the sounds which her soul so loved to hear. “Sing something, Meta,” whispered Mattie, who had stood by in wondering surprise at her friend’s accomplishments, and had only waited for a pause to make her request. Without a demur, she moderated her touch into an accompaniment, and sang that beautiful little song, “Your Mission,” the words of which had been running in her head ever since she had first entered that disagreeable factory. She sang the first verses beautifully, but the third was too much for her, and ere the second line was finished she broke down utterly, and bowing her head upon the piano, she had to let the bitter tears have their way. It was a song which Miss Mehetabel had dearly loved, and many times during the past year, when they had been sitting in the twilight together, she had sung it to her. In a moment she remembered that she was in the presence of a stranger, and almost as suddenly as she had broken down, she recovered herself, and, rising from the piano-stool, she signified to Mattie her desire to return home. Upon the first outbreak of her grief, the old gentleman had retired to the farther side of the room, that his presence need not embarrass her.