“Really, Mr. Richards,” interrupted his wife, with severe dignity; but he stopped her short with a motion of his hand. “Go!” he repeated to the servant, who had hesitated as she spoke, and then he turned again to her. “I want you to understand,” he said, “something of the wrong which you have been doing this child, and now I am going to ask her to play to you. I desire that you treat her civilly, too, when she comes down. She should have been received here as one of us—I regret that I did not insist upon it in the beginning—she should have been on an equal footing with Josie, enjoying the same advantages, and receiving sympathy and encouragement instead of—well, it’s no use fretting over it now; but, by Jove! I’ll make it up to her in the future. Hark! she is coming, and now I’ll have no sneers or sour looks,” he concluded, as the door handle turned. Star entered at this moment, and seeing the whole family assembled, looked somewhat surprised; but Mr. Richards approached her, saying, quietly: “I have sent for you to ask if you will play again for us what you played at the hall to-day?” Star glanced at the two ladies, but their attitude was not encouraging. Mrs. Richards was the personification of dignified indifference, while Miss Josephine sat looking out of a window, and partially concealed by its drapery. She saw that she was wholly indebted to Mr. Richards for this opportunity of displaying her talent, and that they were evidently somewhat doubtful as to her ability to do what he claimed for her; therefore her fingers began to tingle to do their very best. “Certainly; I shall be pleased to play for you if you desire it,” she said, as she walked quietly and unassumingly to the piano and sat down. She had not struck a dozen notes before she had the undivided attention of every listener; and when she had concluded, two of the little company were quivering with jealous anger. Josephine had the name of being a good musician, but both she and her mother could plainly perceive that she had not a tithe of the talent that the fair, despised girl, of whom they had tried to make a common servant, possessed. “Play something else, please,” Mr. Richards said, when she had finished the sonata which she had played at school; and, without a word, her slender fingers went sweeping through one of Mendelssohn’s “_Romances sans Paroles_” in the most intoxicating manner imaginable, and her new admirer, with a look of pardonable triumph, thanked her most warmly when she concluded. She quietly left the room, although she felt assured that a storm was ready to burst as soon as she should be beyond hearing; the very atmosphere was heavy with it. She was right in her conjecture, for no sooner was the door closed behind her than Mrs. Richards’ tongue was loosed, and she broke forth in a torrent of wrath.