So Aggie thought she would soothe him to sleep. She remembered how he used to go to sleep sometimes in the evenings when she played. And the music, she reflected with her bitterness, would cost nothing. But music, good music, costs more than anything; and Arthur was fastidious. Aggie's fingers had grown stiff, and their touch had lost its tenderness. Of their old tricks they remembered nothing, except to stumble at a "stretchy" chord, a perfect bullfinch of a chord, bristling with "accidentals," where in their youth they had been apt to shy. Arthur groaned. "Oh, Lord, there won't be a wink of sleep for either of us if you wake that brat again. What on earth possesses you to strum?" But Aggie was bent, just for the old love of it, and for a little obstinacy, on conquering that chord. "Oh, stop it!" he cried. "Can't you find something better to do?" "Yes," said Aggie, trying to keep her mouth from working, "perhaps I could find something." Arthur looked up at her from under his eyebrows, and was ashamed. She thought still of what she could do for him; and an inspiration came. He had always loved to listen to her reading. Her voice had not suffered as her fingers had; and there, in its old place on the shelf, was the Browning he had given her. "Would you like me to read to you?" "Yes," he said, "if you're not too tired." He was touched by the face he had seen, and by her pathetic efforts; but oh, he thought, if she would only understand. She seated herself in the old place opposite him, and read from where the book fell open of its own accord. "'O, lyric Love, half angel and half bird'"-- Her voice came stammering like a child's, choked with tenderness and many memories-- "'And all a wonder and a wild desire--'" "Oh no, I say, for Heaven's sake, Aggie, not that rot." "You--you used to like it." "Oh, I dare say, years ago. I can't stand it now." "Can't stand it?" Again he was softened. "Can't understand it, perhaps, my dear. But it comes to the same thing." "Yes," said Aggie, "it comes to the same thing." And she read no more. For the first time, for many years, she understood him. That night, as they parted, he did not draw her to him and kiss her; but he let her tired head lean towards him, and stroked her hair. Her eyes filled with tears. She laid her forehead on his shoulder. "Poor Aggie," he said, "poor little woman." She lifted her head suddenly. "It's poor you," she whispered, "poor, poor dear." VIII "Now, isn't it a pity for you to be going, dearie? When the place is doing you so much good, and Susie back in another week, and all." [Illustration: "'Now, isn't it a pity for you to be going, dearie?'"] Aggie folded up a child's frock with great deliberation, and pressed it, gently but firmly, into the portmanteau. "I must go," she said, gravely. "Arthur wants me."