Mary thought she had never seen Lucy look so graceful as when, sounding “A,” she turned upon the piano-stool, and, with her arm extended backwards and her fingers resting upon the keys, she gave the note to each of the players in turn; her usually serene face lit with the enthusiasm of expectancy. It was a truly lovely face,—lovely at all times, but peculiarly so when suffused with a certain soul-lit St. Cecilia look it wore at times like this. Alice sparkled, and Mary shone; but Lucy glowed,—glowed with the half-hidden fire of fervid affections and high and holy thoughts. Alice was a bounding, bubbling fountain, Mary a swift-flowing river, Lucy a still lake glassing the blue heavens in its unknown depths. Wit—imagination—soul. It chanced that the piano had to open the piece alone, the other instruments coming in one after another. Nervously smoothing down her music with both hands, rather pale and tremulous, Lucy began. “Why,” thought Mary, gazing with still intensity from out the isolated corner in which she had seated herself,—“why does _he_ look so anxious?” For, coming to a rapid run, Lucy had stumbled badly, and the Don was pulling nervously at his tawny beard. But soon recovering her self-possession, she executed a difficult passage with ease and brilliancy. “Brava! brava!” cried he, encouragingly, while the Herr nodded and smiled. As for my grandfather, a momentary side-flash of delight was all he could spare the lovely young pianist; for with eyes intently fixed upon his score, and head bobbing up and down, he was in mortal dread of coming in at the wrong time. With him the merest nod of approval, by getting entangled with the nod rhythmic, might well have introduced a fatal error into his counting, while even an encouraging smile was not without its dangers. Mrs. Poythress gave the Don a grateful smile. “He seems to be taking Lucy under his protection,” thought Mary. One after another the players came in; first the Don and Herr Waldteufel, then the second and the viola; and away they went, each after his own fashion; Charley pulling away with close, business-like attention to his notes; the Herr calm but smiling good-humoredly, when, from time to time, he stumbled through rapid passages where his reading was better than his execution; Mr. Whacker struggling manfully, with flushed cheeks and eager eyes, and beating time with his feet with rather unprofessional vigor. As for Lucy, relieved of her embarrassment, when fire had opened all along the line, she made the Herr proud of his pupil; while the Don, master of his score and his instrument, kept nodding and smiling as he played; watching her nimble fingers, during the pauses of his part, with undisguised satisfaction. Mary, sitting apart, saw all this. Nor Mary alone. “He is a goner!” whispered Billy to his girl, in objectionable phrase. “Oh, yes; _hopelessly_!” looked she. “Mr. Frobisher, too,—he’s another goner.”