"They must fancy some good in it up in heaven," said Mary, "or they wouldn't have so much of it there." "There ain't no fiddles in heaven," said Ann, with indignation; "they've nothing there but harps and trumpets." Mary turned to the man, who had not said a word. "Would you mind coming down with me," she said, "and playing a little, very softly, to my friend? She has a little baby, and is not strong. It would do her good." "She'd better read her Bible," said Ann, who, finding she could no longer see, was lighting a candle. "She does read her Bible," returned Mary; "and a little music would, perhaps, help her to read it to better purpose." "There, Ann!" cried the player. The woman replied with a scornful grunt. "Two fools don't make a wise man, for all the franchise," she said. But Mary had once more turned toward the musician, and in the light of the candle was met by a pair of black eyes, keen yet soft, looking out from tinder an overhanging ridge of forehead. The rest of the face was in shadow, but she could see by the whiteness, through a beard that clouded all the lower part of it, that he was smiling to himself: Mary had said what pleased him, and his eyes sought her face, and seemed to rest on it with a kind of trust, and a look as if he was ready to do whatever she might ask of him. "You will come?" said Mary. "Yes, miss, with all my heart," he replied, and flashed a full smile that rested upon Ann, and seemed to say he knew her not so hard as she looked. Rising, he tucked his violin under his arm, and showed himself ready to follow. "Good night, Miss Byrom," said Mary. "Good night, miss," returned Ann, grimly. "I'm sorry for you both, miss. But, until the spirit is poured out from on high, it's nothing but a stumbling in the dark." This last utterance was a reflection rather than a remark. Mary made no reply. She did not care to have the last word; nor did she fancy her cause lost when she had not at hand the answer that befitted folly. She ran down the stair, and at the bottom stood waiting her new acquaintance, who descended more slowly, careful not to make a noise. She could now see, by the gaslight that burned on the landing, a little more of what the man was. He was powerfully built, rather over middle height, and about the age of thirty. His complexion was dark, and the hand that held the bow looked grimy. He bore himself well, but a little stiffly, with a care over his violin like that of a man carrying a baby. He was decidedly handsome, in a rugged way--mouth and chin but hinted through a thick beard of darkest brown. "Come this way," said Mary, leading him into Letty's parlor. "I will tell my friend you are come. Her room, you see, opens off this, and she will hear you delightfully. Pray, take a seat." "Thank you, miss," said the man, but remained standing. "I have caught the bird, Letty," said Mary, loud enough for him to hear; "and he is come to sing a little to you--if you feel strong enough for it."