Mr. Hayes, stirring his coffee, demanded music. He liked it a little for its own sake, but more just then because it would take his companion off his hands. He was tired of entertaining this silent young man, who stood, cup in hand, on the rug, frowning at the portraits of his forefathers, and he sent Barbara to the piano with the certainty that Harding would follow her. As soon as he saw them safely at the other end of the room he dropped with a sigh of relief into the chair which she had quitted, and took up his book. The girl, meanwhile, turned over her music and questioned Reynold. He did not sing?--did not play? No; and he understood very little, but he liked to listen. He turned the pages for her, once or twice too fast, generally much too slowly, never at the right moment. Then Barbara began to play something which she knew by heart, and he stood a little aside, with his moody face softening, and his downward-glancing eyes following her fingers over the keys, as if she were weaving the strands of some delicate tissue. When she stopped, rested one hand on the music-stool on which she sat, and turned from the piano to hear what her uncle wished for next, he saw, as she leaned backward, the pure curve of her averted cheek, and the black lace and amber beads about her softly-rounded throat. "Oh, I know that by heart, too!" she exclaimed. He took up a sheet of music from the piano, and gazed vaguely at it while she struck the first notes. He read the title without heeding it, and then saw pencilled above it in a bold, but somewhat studied, hand, "ADRIAN SCARLETT." For a moment the name held his glance; and when he laid the paper down he looked furtively over his shoulder. He knew that it was an absurd fancy, but he felt as if some one had come into the room and was standing behind Barbara. CHAPTER V. AN OLD LOVE STORY. The next morning saw the three at breakfast in a little room adjoining the drawing-room. The sky was overcast, and before the meal was over Barbara turned her head quickly as the rain lashed the window in sudden fury. She arched her brows, and looked at Mr. Harding with anxious commiseration. "It's going to be a wet day," she said. He raised his eyes to the blurred prospect. "It looks like it, certainly." Her expression was comically aghast. "I never thought of its being wet!" "Yet such a thing does happen occasionally." "Yes, but it needn't have happened to-day. I thought you would want to go out. What _will_ you do?" "Stay indoors, if you have no objection." "But there is nothing to amuse you. You will be so dull." "Less so than usual, I imagine," said Reynold. "Do you find it so difficult to amuse yourself on a wet day?" "No, but I have a great deal to do. Besides, it is different. Don't men always want to be amused more than women?" "Poor men!" said he.