“By George, that's great!” he breathed, when the last tone had quivered into silence. “Yes, isn't it--beautiful?” she murmured. The room was very quiet, and in semi-darkness. The last rays of a late June sunset had been filling the room with golden light, but it was gone now. Even at the piano by the window, Alice had barely been able to see clearly enough to read the notes of her nocturne. To Arkwright the air still trembled with the exquisite melody that had but just left her fingers. A quick fire came to his eyes. He forgot everything but that it was Alice there in the half-light by the window--Alice, whom he loved. With a low cry he took a swift step toward her. “Alice!” Instantly the girl was on her feet. But it was not toward him that she turned. It was away--resolutely, and with a haste that was strangely like terror. Alice, too, had forgotten, for just a moment. She had let herself drift into a dream world where there was nothing but the music she was playing and the man she loved. Then the music had stopped, and the man had spoken her name. Alice remembered then. She remembered Billy, whom this man loved. She remembered the long days just passed when this man had stayed away, presumably to teach _her_--to save _her_. And now, at the sound of his voice speaking her name, she had almost bared her heart to him. No wonder that Alice, with a haste that looked like terror, crossed the floor and flooded the room with light. “Dear me!” she shivered, carefully avoiding Arkwright's eyes. “If Mr. Calderwell were here now he'd have some excuse to talk about our lost spirits that wail. That _is_ a creepy piece of music when you play it in the dark!” And, for fear that he should suspect how her heart was aching, she gave a particularly brilliant and joyous smile. Once again at the mention of Calderwell's name Arkwright stiffened perceptibly. The fire left his eyes. For a moment he did not speak; then, gravely, he said: “Calderwell? Yes, perhaps he would; and--you ought to be a judge, I should think. You see him quite frequently, don't you?” “Why, yes, of course. He often comes out here, you know.” “Yes; I had heard that he did--since _you_ came.” His meaning was unmistakable. Alice looked up quickly. A prompt denial of his implication was on her lips when the thought came to her that perhaps just here lay a sure way to prove to this man before her that there was, indeed, no need for him to teach her, to save her, or yet to sympathize with her. She could not affirm, of course; but she need not deny--yet. “Nonsense!” she laughed lightly, pleased that she could feel what she hoped would pass for a telltale color burning her cheeks. “Come, let us try some duets,” she proposed, leading the way to the piano. And Arkwright, interpreting the apparently embarrassed change of subject exactly as she had hoped that he would interpret it, followed her, sick at heart. “'O wert thou in the cauld blast,'” sang Arkwright's lips a few moments later.