The piano stood in a central position, and was draped with a Japanese robe of state—a mass of rainbow-hued embroidery on a ground of violet satin almost covered with gold thread. It was the most gorgeous fabric Godfrey Carmichael had ever seen, and it made the piano a spot of vivid parti-coloured light, amidst the more subdued colouring of the room—the silvery silken curtains, the delicate Indian muslin draperies, and the dull tawny plush coverings of sofas and chairs. The room was lighted only by clusters of wax candles, and a reading-lamp on a small table near one of the windows. It was a rule that wherever Sir Godfrey spent his evening there must always be a reading-table and lamp ready for him. He showed no eagerness for his books yet awhile, but seemed completely happy lolling at full length on a sofa near the piano, listening and watching as Juanita played. She played more of Mattei’s brilliant music—another waltz—an arrangement of _Non è ver_—and then dashed into one of Chopin’s wildest mazurkas, with an audacious self-abandonment that was almost genius. Godfrey listened rapturously, delighted with the music for its own sake, but even more delighted for the gladness which it expressed. She stopped at last, breathless, after Mendelssohn’s Capriccio. Godfrey had risen from the sofa and was standing by her side. “I’m afraid I must have tired you to death,” she said, “but I had a strange sort of feeling that I must go on playing. That music was a safety-valve for my high spirits.” “My darling, I am so glad to see that you have done with imaginary woes. We may have real troubles of some kind to face by-and-by, perhaps, as we go down the hill, so it would be very foolish to abandon ourselves to fancied sorrows while we are on the top.” “Real troubles—yes—sickness, anxiety, the fear of parting,” said Juanita, in a troubled voice. “Oh, Godfrey, if we were to give half our fortune to the poor—if we were to make some great sacrifice—do you think God would spare us such pangs as these—the fear—the horrible fear of being parted from each other?” “My dearest, we cannot make a bargain with Providence. We can only do our duty, and hope for the best.” “At any rate, let us be very—very good to the poor,” urged Juanita, with intense earnestness; “let us have their prayers to plead for us.” The night was warm and still, and the windows were all open to the terrace. Godfrey and Juanita took their coffee in their favourite corner by the magnolia tree, and sat there for a long time in the soft light of the stars, talking the old sweet talk of their future life. “We must drive to Swanage and see Lady Jane to-morrow,” said Juanita by-and-by. “Don’t you think it was very wrong to go to see my people—only cousins after all—before we went to your mother?” “She will come to us, dear, directly we give her permission. I know she is dying to see you in your new character.”