One evening he and the clerk sat on the piazza together. The parlor windows were open, and Alice sat at the piano and played to them. Old John began to talk about the business transactions of the day, and seemed particularly delighted at certain good news which he had heard, and which he had just finished relating to the clerk. “Remarkable, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. But he might as well have talked to the plaster statue of Neptune which stood on the green before him, as to the young clerk. He was either listening attentively to the music, or else his thoughts were far away, for he took no notice of what Old John said to him, but sat silent, his head leaning upon his hand and his eyes fixed upon vacancy. “Hey! what’s all this?” exclaimed Old John, starting up and shaking the clerk’s arm. “What! dreaming by moonlight! A bad sign—very bad sign—too romantic by half! Here, Ally—Ally! come here directly,” he continued, shouting to his daughter. Walter started up and would have prevented him, but he continued to call, and soon the piano ceased to sound, and Alice made her appearance. “What do you want, papa?” she asked. “Here is this fellow,” he answered, “falling asleep in the midst of our conversation; dreaming by moonlight! I want you to keep him awake.” “I beg pardon, sir,” said the clerk, attempting an excuse, “but I was thinking—” “O, but that wont do,” said Old John, “I was talking. However, I will tell you how we will make it up. You shall sing that duet with Alice; the one you sung last night, and mind you don’t go to sleep before it is finished, or—” and he finished the sentence with a shake of the finger. “I will undertake it willingly,” said the clerk. Walter moved his chair closer by the side of Alice, and took his seat. But there was still a difficulty; neither of them could determine on the right pitch. Alice ran and struck a note on the piano, and returned sounding it all the way. She sat down, and her hand involuntarily fell upon Walter’s; he pressed it in his own, and the duet commenced. Both the words and the music were very simple; they were the expression of love, pure and holy; and never did they sing better. Walter’s whole soul was thrown into the words, and his heart beat to the sounds his lips uttered. A slight pressure of her hand expressed to Alice how truly, how deeply he felt the beauty of love, and her voice trembled as she sung, adding still more to the music. There was silence for a short time after the sound of their voices had ceased. It seemed Old John’s turn to dream now. The beautiful music had called up old, happy scenes to his mind; perhaps the thoughts of his youth and first-love were leading him far away; for he sat silently, with his hand drawn across his eyes, as if to shade them from the moonlight.