Her music astonished him. Where had a little provincial maiden learned to play with this intelligence, this force, this delicate command of her instrument? He was not a musician, and therefore could not gauge her exactly, but he was more or less familiar with music and its standards, as all people become nowadays who live in a highly cultivated society, and he knew enough at any rate to see that what he was listening to was remarkable, was out of the common range. Still more evident was this, when from the humorous piece with which the sisters led off--a dance of clowns, but clowns of Arcady--they slid into a delicate rippling _chant d’amour_, the long-drawn notes of the violin rising and falling on the piano accompaniment with an exquisite plaintiveness. Where did a _fillette_, unformed, inexperienced, win the secret of so much eloquence--only from the natural dreams of a girl’s heart as to ‘the lovers waiting in the hidden years?’ But when the music ceased, Elsmere, after a hearty clap that set the room applauding likewise, turned not to the musician but the figure beside Mrs. Leyburn, the sister who had sat listening with an impassiveness, a sort of gentle remoteness of look which had piqued his curiosity. The mother meanwhile was drinking in the compliments of Dr. Baker. ‘Excellent!’ cried Elsmere. ‘How in the name of fortune, Miss Leyburn, if I may ask, has your sister managed to get on so far in this remote place?’ ‘She goes to Manchester every year to some relations we have there,’ said Catherine quietly; ‘I believe she has been very well taught.’ ‘But surely,’ he said warmly, ‘it is more than teaching--more even than talent--there is something like genius in it?’ She did not answer very readily. ‘I don’t know,’ she said at last. ‘Everyone says it is very good.’ He would have been repelled by her irresponsiveness but that her last words had in them a note of lingering, of wistfulness, as though the subject were connected with an inner debate not yet solved which troubled her. He was puzzled, but certainly not repelled. Twenty minutes later everybody was going. The Seatons went first, and the other guests lingered awhile afterward to enjoy the sense of freedom left by their departure. But at last the Mayews, father and son, set off on foot to walk home over the moonlit mountains; the doctor tucked himself and his daughter into his high gig and drove off with a sweeping ironical bow to Rose, who had stood on the steps teasing him to the last; and Robert Elsmere offered to escort the Miss Leyburns and their mother home. Mrs. Thornburgh was left protesting to the vicar’s incredulous ears that never--never as long as she lived--would she have Mrs. Seaton inside her doors again. ‘Her manners’--cried the vicar’s wife, fuming--‘her manners would disgrace a Whinborough shop-girl. She has none--positively none!’ Then suddenly her round, comfortable face brightened and broadened out into a beaming smile--