"Let's read the book first," Cecily elected. So, sitting in the secluded corner of the garden, the three spent a happy morning, reading aloud, turn about, while the others worked at their embroidery. At last, when all were tired, Cecily begged Marcia to play, and she laid her book aside and took up the violin. "What shall I play?" she asked. "Something lively?" "No," said Cecily. "Play something soft and sweet and dreamy. I feel just in that mood to-day. It's too hot for lively things." Marcia played the Liszt "Liebestraum," and a lovely setting of the old Scotch song "Loch Lomond," and after that the "Melody in F." And then, at Cecily's entreating glance, she drifted, as usual, into the "Träumerei." "Do you know," said Cecily, when she had ended, "I believe I must have heard that thing when I was a baby. It's the only reason I can think of that it seems so--so familiar. And yet--unless I'd heard it a great, great many times then, I don't think it would have made such an impression on me. And where could I have heard it? Play it again, Marcia, please." Marcia obligingly began, but she had gone no farther than the first few measures when the door opened and Miss Benedict appeared. She seemed very much agitated, and her bonnet and veil, donned in an evident hurry, were slightly awry. "I beg you," she began, turning to Marcia, "not to play any more. I--er--it is--is not because it is not beautiful, but it is--is slightly disturbing to--some one inside." "Why, of course I won't, Miss Benedict," said Marcia, dropping her bow. "I wouldn't have done such a thing if I'd dreamed it would disturb any one." "It isn't--it isn't that _I_ don't love it," stammered Miss Benedict, "for I do. But it seems to be very upsetting to--" She hesitated, just a fraction of a moment, and then seemed to take a sudden resolution. "--to my sister!" she ended flutteringly, as though the simple admission carried something damaging with it. It required strong self-control for the three girls not to exchange glances. "Oh, I hope I haven't done her any harm!" cried Marcia, contritely. "No--she--it has just made her a little nervous. She will be all right soon, I trust. But I noticed that it had the same effect--before," went on Miss Benedict. "I fear I shall have to ask you not--not to play again in her hearing. And I am very sorry, both for Cecily--and myself." And she retreated into the house again, closing the door softly. On the way back to luncheon that noon the girls excitedly discussed the newest turn of affairs and the newest revelation made by their strange neighbor. And so absorbed were they in this fresh interest and so anxious to impart it to Aunt Minerva that they scarcely noticed she was laboring under a suppressed excitement quite as great as their own. Indeed, she paid but scant attention to their recital; and when they had finished, her only comment was: "Very odd--very odd indeed. But you never can guess about the news _I_ have!"