Although she did not approve of their style of dress, or their airy manners, still they were something that belonged to her former life in New York, and she would have enjoyed having a chat with them once in a while for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne.” With the quick thought that they were not worth a pang of regret, for they had shown that they had become very snobbish, she turned away, and aimlessly wandered over to an old piano that stood on one side of the room. As if to ease the hurt feeling that still jarred her sensitiveness, she sat down and carelessly ran her fingers over the old yellow keys. A sudden call from the invalid in the adjoining room,—the door stood open,—for Nathalie to play something, brought the girl to herself with a sudden start. “Oh, I do not know anything to play,” she weakly pleaded, “for I am no musician.” Nathalie spoke the truth, for she not only had no special talent for music, but the little accomplishment that she had acquired in that line had been sadly neglected since she had taken up housework. But as the invalid’s plea was insistent, and the girl did not want to be disagreeable, she again swept her hands over the keyboard, this time unconsciously falling into one of Chopin’s waltzes, something that she supposed she had forgotten. From this she wandered into a few rag-time airs, and then came snatches of old-time melodies, until finally she was playing a well-known reverie by a noted composer. But suddenly realizing that she had heard nothing from the next room, and fearing that she had wearied Miss Whipple, she hastily arose and hurried to her side, to find her lying back in her chair with a strange restful expression on her face, but with closed eye lids, through which tears were slowly trickling. “Oh, Miss Whipple, I should not have played so long,” exclaimed the girl remorsefully. “Perhaps I have made you feel sad.” “No, no, my child! Your playing has brightened me up.” The invalid sat up quickly, as she shamefacedly wiped away the stray tears. “Indeed, my dear, I pay you a compliment when I cry, for if the music did not go right to my heart the tears would not have come. No, I would never regret being an old shut-in if I could hear music once in a while. But that was a lovely little thing you played last; it is one of my favorites.” “Oh, I must try to get Janet to come down and play for you,” cried Nathalie with a relieved sigh, “for she is a _real_ musician, and plays for us every evening as we sit on the veranda in the moonlight. But it is getting late and I must go, for I have supper to get. When my boys come, perhaps I shall have more time, for, you know, I am going to put them through their paces and teach them to be helpful.”