On this occasion Joe threw open the lid of the piano with such dexterity as to tangle the cover inextricably with the lid, set up the stool with a whirl, and dashed into the midst of a composition that might have been conceived by a mad musician and wailed out on an instrument possessed, like Paganini's fiddle, one night when the demons of the storm were playing at hide-and-seek among the Hartz Mountains of Germany. It went from the top to the bottom of the scale, in such moanings, and wailings, and sobbings, intermingled with such fiendish dashes of exultation and laughter, that the nerves of a strong man might have been thrown into permanent disorder by it, while those of a sick one could not do otherwise than suffer the most exquisite torture. "I think that will do!" said Miss Joe to herself, pausing for an instant and then going on again. She was right, for at the next partial pause she heard the voice of Dick Crawford, from the back-room, yelling out with more energy than the man himself had before thought that he possessed: "Sto-o-o-op!" She did stop--ran to the sliding-doors and opened them at once, to find Crawford sitting upon the sofa, with his hands to both ears. "Eh? what's the matter, Dick? Does the music disturb you?" she asked, as naturally as if she had not before been aware of the fact. "Disturb me? It _murders_ me--you know it does, you torment!" was the reply of Crawford. "I am so sorry," said Joe, with the least perceptible pout on her lip. "I suppose that I must go home, then, and play." "No," said Crawford, who had no idea of being guilty of the ungallantry of driving a lady out of his house, especially dear, delicious, tormenting Joe. "No, don't go home. But if you must play, why not play something Christian and respectable--something that a man can listen to without gritting his teeth and stopping his ears more than half the time?" "Well, that _is_ complimentary!" sighed Josey. "Just when I was doing the very best that I could! Besides, I wasn't playing for _you_. You were not in the room, but stuck away off there in a corner. I'll tell you what I will do, Mr. Dick Crawford. Let me help you out here to a sofa in _this_ room--the air will not hurt you, but do you good,--and I promise to play for you the very tunes you wish. If not--" "Oh, you need not mention the alternative," said Crawford, remembering the preceding performance and afraid of a repetition. "Come here, give me your arm, and I _will_ come out for a few minutes."