"Mrs. Ray told me you played Rubinstein so well,--that melody in F, for one." "Did Mrs. Ray speak of that?"--his face brightening. "I'm glad they found anything to enjoy in my music." "'They' found a great deal, Mr. Hayne, and there are a number who are envious of their good fortune,--I, for one," she answered, blithely. "Now play for me. Mrs. Waldron will be here in a minute." And when Mrs. Waldron came in, a little later, Miss Travers, seated in an easy-chair and looking intently into the blaze, was listening as intently to the soft, rich melodies that Mr. Hayne was playing. The firelight was flickering on her shining hair; one slender white hand was toying with the locket that hung at her throat, the other gently tapping on the arm of the chair in unison with the music. And Mr. Hayne, seated in the shadow, bent slightly over the key-board, absorbed in his pleasant task, and playing as though all his soul were thrilling in his finger-tips. Mrs. Waldron stood in silence at the door-way, watching the unconscious pair with an odd yet comforted expression in her eyes. At last, in one long, sweet, sighing chord, the melody softly died away, and Mr. Hayne slowly turned and looked upon the girl. She seemed to have wandered off into dream-land. For a moment there was no sound; then, with a little shivering sigh, she roused herself. "It is simply exquisite," she said. "You have given me such a treat!" "I'm glad. I owe you a great deal more pleasure, Miss Travers." Mrs. Waldron hereat elevated her eyebrows. She would have slipped away if she could, but she was a woman of substance, and as solid in flesh as she was warm of heart. She did the only thing left to her,--came cordially forward to welcome her two visitors and express her delight that Miss Travers could have an opportunity of hearing Mr. Hayne play. She soon succeeded in starting him again, and shortly thereafter managed to slip out unnoticed. When he turned around a few minutes afterwards, she had vanished. "Why, I had no idea she was gone!" exclaimed Miss Travers; and then the color mounted to her brow. He must think her extremely absorbed in his playing; and so indeed she was. "You are very fond of music, I see," he said, at a venture. "Yes, very; but I play very little and very badly. Pardon me, Mr. Hayne, but you have played many years, have you not?" "Not so very many; but--there have been many in which I had little else to do but practise." She reddened again. It was so unlike him, she thought, to refer to that matter in speaking to her. He seemed to read her: