Catharine obeyed, and Elsie, sweeping out her skirts with a queenly gesture, seated herself, and dashed into an old-fashioned dancing-tune that made the room ring again. At first, her touch was a little heavy and stiff, but after awhile those slender fingers flashed across the keys like lightning. The usually sad face became brilliant, and, with a bend of the head that a queen might have envied, that demented woman brought another beautiful talent out of the past, proudly as a child exhibits its most gorgeous plaything. Catharine was very tired, and went away from her weary work at the piano with a sensation of relief that no one could have guessed at from the expression of her sweet face. She stood a moment at the door, looking at the bright scene her own energies had wrought out of the most unpromising materials that ever presented themselves to human talent. There, under the lights and the flower garlands, she saw those helpless creatures, full of childish gleefulness, dancing, smiling, and filling the room with laughter, genuine as could be heard in any saloon of the large cities. The sight was a pleasant one, and Catharine turned away from it wondering that she should feel so sad. She went slowly up to Mrs. Barr’s room. The good lady had not felt well enough to come down, and she would sit by her a while and warm her heart with a description of the scene she had just left. Mrs. Barr was sitting alone, with her hands clasped softly in her lap. There was no lamp in the chamber, but the light of a calm summer’s moon fell upon her face, touching the middle-aged features with serene beauty. Catharine drew a foot-stool close to her friend, and sat down upon it. “How still you are,” she said, gently. “It seems like a sabbath here, after all the hilarity down-stairs.” “Are they happy? Does our little plan succeed, Catharine?” “Yes, madam. You never saw children let out an hour before school-time enjoy themselves more.” “Poor things; how one learns to love their helplessness. I should almost like to stay with them a little longer.” “A little longer?” faltered Catharine, touching the clasped hands in Mrs. Barr’s lap with a sort of awe, as if she expected to find them growing cold. “Yes, my child, but it cannot be. God chooses his own time, and chooses it well. Do not start and look at me so mournfully, Catharine. It is a short journey I am taking; one which every soul must travel.” “But you are not sure; only a little while ago you seemed so well,” pleaded Catharine, with tears in her voice. “Still, I am near the end; the moon is at its full now—” She paused, and looked kindly down into the sad young face uplifted so piteously to hers. This broken sentence had chilled it into paleness. “You—you do not mean that?” she questioned. “Oh, not so soon!” Mrs. Barr unlocked her hands, and laid one of them on the anxious creature’s head, tenderly as if she had been smoothing the white plumage of a dove.