Before the agitated believer in the propriety of the unmarried state for clergymen could say her yea or nay, she cast her spells--and her hands--upon the keyboard of the instrument, so that it burst out into a concourse of sweet sounds. The Rev. Alan was, in his way a born musician. The only dissipation he allowed himself was music. The soul of the mean-looking, wrong-headed little man was attuned to harmony. Good music had on him the effect which Orpheus with his lute had on more stubborn materials than curates--it bewitched him. Miss Vesey had not played ten seconds before he realised that here was a dispenser of the food which his soul loved--a mistress of melody. What it was she played he did not know--it seemed to him an improvisation. He stood listening--entranced. Suddenly the musician's mood changed. The notes of triumph ceased, and there came instead a strain of languorous music which set all the curate's pulses throbbing. "Come here!" Miss Vesey whispered. The curate settled his spectacles upon his nose. He looked around him as though he were not sure that he had heard aright. And the command was uttered in such half-tones that he might be excused for supposing that his ears had played him false. "Come here!" The command again. Again the Rev. Alan settled his spectacles upon his nose. He gazed at the musician as if still in doubt. "I--I beg your pardon? Did you speak to me?" "Come here!" A third time the command--this time clearer and louder too. As if unconsciously he advanced towards the pianist, hat in one hand, handkerchief in another, his whole bearing eloquent of a state of mental indecision. He went quite close to her--so close that there would be no excuse for saying that he could not hear her if she whispered again. Again the musician's theme was changed. The languorous melody faded. There came a succession of wild sounds, as of souls in pain. The curate's organisation was a sensitive one--the cries were almost more than he could bear. "Pity me!" The voice was corporal enough. It was Miss Vesey, once more indulging in a whisper. Again the curate was at a nonplus. Again he went through the mechanical action of settling his spectacles upon his nose. "I--I beg your pardon?" It seemed to be a stereotyped form of words with him. "Pity me! Pity me! Do!" The words were a cry of anguish--quite as anguished as the music was. The Rev. Alan looked round the room, perhaps for succour and relief. He saw his aunt, but at that moment her face happened to be turned another way. "If you need my pity, it is yours." The words, like the lady's, were spoken, doubtless unintentionally, in a whisper. "If you pity me, then help me too!" "If I can, I--I will!" "You promise?" "Certainly." Although the word was a tolerably bold one, it was by no means boldly spoken; probably that was owing to the state of confusion existing in the speaker's mind.