Emily smiled with superb languor, and half-reluctant, for she was not in a songful mood, swept over to the piano, looking steadily as she advanced at Wentworth, who was leaning carelessly against the instrument, and regarding her with stern eyes. “I believe,” said she, listlessly, as she sunk upon the music-stool, and with a parting glance of cold hauteur dropped her eyes from the steady gaze of Wentworth, “I believe that the piano is out of tune.” “Do you know why, Miss Ames?” asked Wentworth suddenly, in a voice at once so quiet and so marked that both Muriel and Harrington looked at him. “Because,” he said with bitter and terrible significance, a scowl darkening his features—“because it has been played upon!” Muriel and Harrington started with a low exclamation, and glanced first at Wentworth, and then at Emily, with mute amazement. A smile arose on Wentworth’s face, and mingled with his scowl, as he slowly walked away. Emily rose from her seat, and gazed after him, her form dilated to its full height, her bosom heaving, and her face and neck suffused with an indignant scarlet glow. Turning, Wentworth looked haughtily at her for a moment, and then, utterly reckless, with heart and brain on fire, laughed a bitter and scornful laugh, and moved toward the parlor door. Emily’s lip quivered, her color faded to pallor, and bursting into a passionate flood of tears, she covered her face with her hands, and swept by the other door from the room. Muriel and Harrington had stood transfixed with astonishment up to this moment, but as they saw both Emily and Wentworth leave the parlor, they recovered with a start. “Stay, Wentworth,” cried Harrington, rushing to the door, and “Emily, Emily,” cried Muriel, flying after her friend. But Harrington reached the hall, just as the front door slammed at the heels of Wentworth, and tearing it open, he beheld him running up the street like a madman, while Muriel, bounding up-stairs after Emily, saw her vanish into her chamber, and heard the lock of her door click behind her. Both returned to the parlor at the same moment, and advancing toward each other, pale, agitated, and almost petrified with wonder at the lightning-like suddenness and inexplicable character of this incident, gazed into each other’s faces. The affair was like a flash on a dark landscape, giving a vague glimpse of some mysterious form there, and vanishing before its nature was revealed. “Good Heavens, John! what does this mean?” exclaimed Muriel, breaking the lonely stillness of the lighted parlor. “I do not know,” he murmured, vacantly gazing at her. “Is Richard mad?” She put her hands to her bosom to repress its throbbings, and sank into a large chair near her. Both were silent for some minutes, each trying to think, with a whirling brain, what this could possibly mean. “What a singular day this has been!” murmured Harrington at length, as behind this last incident the tableau of its many-passioned hours rose in his mind.