"I daresay your talents lie in other directions," her uncle said, quite sympathetically for him. "You play and sing, don’t you?" "Yes," Hazel admitted. "Thank Heaven you don’t give the young ladies’ invariable answer ’A little,’" Mr. Desborough exclaimed in approval. "The girl who plays and sings ’a little’ is generally merciless in the number and length of her attempts, and in the frequency with which she renders them. Go to the piano now and let me hear what you can do." Somewhat reluctantly, Hazel rose to do his bidding. Like all sensitive temperaments, the girl was influenced in a great degree by her surroundings and by the atmospheric conditions of the moment. Just now she felt utterly disinclined for this sudden and most unexpected performance of any musical ability she might possess, with her Uncle Desborough as auditor. The music-stool became a dock, and the little prisoner was put upon her trial before a severe and critical judge. She seated herself and played, badly enough, a bright piece of Chopin—a sorry choice for nervous fingers and distracted mind. But under all his brusque, nay, hard, exterior there lay somewhere deep down in his breast a very human and sympathetic heart, a fact too often overlooked or forgotten by his friends, and consequently—there being no one to remind him of it—forgotten by himself. Hazel’s friendly, gentle ways, and sweet spontaneity had gone straight to the centre of that long-slumbering organ, causing it to stir in new and warm pulsations, to his own no small amazement. He was better aware than the girl herself of the height and depth to which such delicate sensibilities as constituted her mental and spiritual composition, could rise and fall; and knew well enough that the present moment was inauspicious for showing her talent in its true dimensions. "That is a beautiful thing," was all he said. "Play me something more." At that there whelmed over Hazel a sense of shame. How unkind and unfair to make any one listen to such poorly executed music—most of all her uncle, who, she now gathered for the first time, was an artist, an expert—for she had instantly detected the sympathy in his tone—to whom, therefore, her best was due. How unkind to let her nervous self-consciousness entirely spoil that which, to such an one, might prove a pleasure, if she but did her best—a pleasure that she feared the old man all too seldom enjoyed in his lonely life. She played again, Grieg this time, with her whole heart in the rendering; then, with a quick change of mood and key, she began to sing a sweet, plaintive ditty, her fervent little soul in her voice, tender, exquisite; then another and yet another. Tired at last, she rose from the piano. "Good gracious, child," Uncle Desborough exclaimed, amazed. "Where did you learn to sing like that?" "Mother used to teach me," Hazel responded simply; "but I don’t have any lessons now." *CHAPTER XV*