A fiddler! And a top fiddler! Shades of Byron and of Bulwer! Mary felt an icy numbness at her heart. Half an hour afterwards, when the two girls were nearly ready for breakfast, she was standing behind Alice, pinning on her collar. “Oh, Alice,” cried the little hypocrite, suddenly, as though the thought had but just occurred to her, “what charming music we shall have now!” “Oo-ee,” cried Alice, shrinking. “Ah, did I prick your neck?” “Yes; but no matter. Oh, yes, I am just dying to hear him play,—and play he shall, or my name is not Alice Carter. There you go again! Bear in mind, please, that the collar is to be pinned to my dress, not to my lovely person. What _could_ have induced him to hide such an accomplishment!” added she, stamping her little foot. “There! That sets very nicely! I don’t know what made me so awkward. So you think it is—wait a moment,—ah, that’s just right,—an accomplishment?” One man in a thousand may acquire somewhat of the art, but every woman is born a perfect actress. True, you shall not see this perfection on the stage. There the ambition of women is to be actresses, rather than actresses women. It was perfect! But Alice was not thrown off the scent. Men can deceive men; men may hoodwink women, and be hoodwinked in turn; but it has not been given to one woman to throw dust into the eyes of another. The silliest girl can see through the most astute as though she were of glass. “An accomplishment? What? To pin people’s collars to their necks?” “Of course not, goosey! An accomplishment for gentlemen to play on the fid—violin?” “Oh!” said Alice, dryly. “Why, of course it is. Any art which gives pleasure is an accomplishment.” “Yes, I know; but—” “Go on.” “I don’t think it is—exactly—oh, I don’t know what I think about it.” “But I do,” replied Alice, quickly, turning and facing her friend. “And what do you know that I think, that I do not know myself?” said Mary, putting her hands on Alice’s shoulders, drawing her close, and smiling affectionately into her eyes. “Don’t you remember my laughing, once, at school, over the story about Alcibiades’ refusing to learn to play on the flute, because he deemed the necessary puckering of the mouth undignified, and that you thought he was right? Heroes, my dear, according to your romantic notions, must always be heroic.” “Heroes!” exclaimed Mary, with wide-eyed innocence. “Who, pray, mentioned heroes!” But a heightened color tinged her cheeks. Alice, without making reply, placed her hand over Mary’s heart, and stood as though counting its beats. “’Tis a dear little heart,” mused she, “but—” “But what?” “But very susceptible, I fear.” And lifting her right hand, she shook her forefinger at her friend. “Take care!” said she, with a voice and look half serious, half jocular. “Oh, don’t be uneasy about me!” And with a bright smile on her flushed face Mary frisked away to join some of the other girls who were descending to the breakfast-room.