"So I came home across the lawn, and got in at my window. I rang for candles; it was not dark, certainly, but I wanted to play. I stood at the window till the goodwife of the house, from her little kitchen, brought them up. She placed them upon the piano, as I had always ordered her to do, and left the room. After I had watched the moonlight out of doors for some time, being lazy with that wild air, I walked absently up to the instrument. What had taken place there? Behold, the Bach and Handel, discarded, lay behind the desk, having been removed by some careful hand, and on the desk itself, still overhung with the honeysuckle and heather I had hastily tossed about it, I found a sheet of music-paper. I could not believe my eyes for a long time. It was covered with close, delicate composition, so small as to fill a double page, and distinct as any printing. It had this inscription, but no name, no notice else: 'Heather and Honeysuckle; a Tone-wreath from the Northern Hills."' "And that is what you played; oh, Miss Lawrence!" I cried, less in ecstasy at the sum of the story than at my own consciousness of having anticipated its conclusion. "Yes, that is what I played, and what I very seldom do play; but I thought you should hear it!" "I!" I cried, much too loud under the circumstances; but I could not have helped it. "It was very kind of you, but I don't know why you should. But it is by _him_ then?" "You have said!" answered Miss Lawrence, laughing,--"at least I think so. And if you and I agree, no doubt we are right." "No, I don't see that at all," I replied; for it was a thing I could not allow. "I am only a little boy, and you are a great player, and grown up. Besides, you saw his shadow." "Do you think so? Well, I thought so myself, though it may possibly have been the shadow of somebody else." Miss Lawrence here stopped, that she might laugh; and as she laughed, her deep eyes woke up and shone like fire-flies glancing, to and fro. Very Spanish she seemed then, and very Jewish withal. I had never seen a Spaniard I suppose then, but I conceive I had met with prints of Murillo's "Flower-girl;" for her eyes were the only things I could think of while Miss Lawrence laughed. "At all events," she at last continued, "the 'Tone-wreath' is no shadow." I was astonished here to perceive that Clara had raised her eyes,--indeed, they looked fully into those of the speaker. "He came from Germany, you can be sure at least." "Why so, Miss Benette?" replied Miss Lawrence, graciously, but with a slight deference very touching from one so self-sustained. "Because it is only in that land they call music 'Tone.'"