And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus, and her rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the embroideries, and the hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all seemed to intermingle and pierce to her very soul. She was glad to play the piano. When deeply moved she loved to play, to pour out her feelings in dreamy melodies and deep vibrant harmonies with queer minor cadences thrown in--the kind of music you can play “with expression,” while you vision mysterious, poetic pictures. After a moment's reflection, she decided on “The Angel's Serenade”; she knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she could almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the silvery sheen of them astir. And, oddly, all that sheen and stir, all that sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself--just as if her own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard. And with Missy, to play “The Angel's Serenade” was to crave playing more such divine pieces; she drifted on into “Traumerei”; “Simple Confession”; “One Sweetly Solemn Thought,” with variations. She played them all with extra “expression,” putting all her loving sympathy for Uncle Charlie into her finger-tips. And he must have been soothed by it, for he dozed off, and came to with a start when she finally paused, to tell her how beautifully she played. Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was like grandpa--the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep, unusual things. They talked about music, and the meaning of the pieces she'd played. Then about reading. He asked her what she was reading nowadays. “This is your book, isn't it?” he enquired, picking up “The Romances of King Arthur” from the table beside him. Heavens! how tactless of her to have brought it down this morning! But there was nothing for her to do, save to act in a natural, casual manner. “Yes,” she said. Uncle Charlie opened the book. Heavens! it fell open at the illustration of the two lovers drinking the fateful potion! “Which is your favourite legend?” he asked. Missy was too nervous to utter anything but the simple truth. “The story of Sir Tristram and La Beale Isoud,” she answered. “Ah,” said Uncle Charlie. He gazed at the picture she knew so well. What was he thinking? “Why is it your favourite?” he went on. “I don't know--because it's so romantic, I guess. And so sad and beautiful.” “Ah, yes,” said Uncle Charlie. “You have a feeling for the classic, I see. You call her 'Isoud'?” That pleased Missy; and, despite her agitation over this malaprop theme, she couldn't resist the impulse to air her lately acquired learning. “Yes, but she has different names in all the different languages, you know. And she was the most beautiful lady or maiden that ever lived.” “Is that so?” said Uncle Charlie. “More beautiful than your Aunt Isabel?”