It was no absurd notion of relative inferiority with which I surveyed it, I was pained at the positive fact that the person to whom I had taken such a fancy should be obliged to remain where I felt as if I should never be able to breathe. I lingered but a moment though, and then I touched a little heavy, distorted knocker that hung nearly at the bottom of the door,--how unlike, I thought, to Lenhart Davy's tiny castle under lock and key! Presently the door was opened by a person, the like of whom I had never seen in all my small experience,--a universal servant, required to be ubiquitous; let this description suffice. I asked for Miss Benette. "The first door to the right, upstairs," was the reply; and passing along a dark entry, I began to ascend them, steep and carpetless. I seemed, however, to revive when I perceived how lately the wooden steps had been washed; there was not a foot-mark all the way up to the top, and they smelt of soap and water. I found several doors to embarrass me on the landing, all painted black; but I heard tones in one direction that decided me to knock. A voice as soft as Millicent's responded, "Come in." Oh, how strange I felt when I entered! to the full as strange as when I first saw Davy's sanctum. No less a sanctum this, I remember thinking, to the eyes that behold the pure in heart. It was so exquisitely tidy, I felt at once that my selfish sensibilities had nothing to fear. The room was indeed small, but no book walls darkened gloriously the daylight; the fireplace was hideous, the carpet coarse and glaring, the paper was crude green,--I hate crude greens more than yellow blues,--and the chairs were rush-bottomed, every one. But she for whom I came was seated at the window, singing; she held some piece of work in her hand, which she laid upon the table when I entered. Pardon my reverting to the table; I could not keep my eyes from it. It was covered with specimens of work,--such work as I had never seen, as I shall never see again, though all my sisters could embroider, could stitch, could sew with the very best. She did not like me to look at it though, I thought, for she drew me to the window by showing me a chair she had set for me close beside her own. The only luxury amidst the furniture was a mahogany music-stand, which was placed before our two seats. One part lay upon the stand, but it was not in Lenhart Davy's autography. "Did you copy that part yourself, Miss Benette?" said I, unable to restrain the question. "Yes; I thought it too much that Mr. Davy should copy all the parts himself for us." "Does he?" "Oh, yes; did you not know it? But we must not talk, we must work. Let us be very careful." "You show me how; please to sing it once alone."