Mary had not at first risen with the rest. An unconquerable reserve was her most marked trait. But at last even she rose (not being able, perhaps, to see the Don from where she sat), but did not join the cluster that surrounded the piano. She stood apart, resting her elbow upon the mantel-piece, her cheek upon her hand, listening to the music,—the music half drowned by the fevered tattoo her own heart was beating. For now Lucy was singing the last stanza of the song, and the Herr had dropped into something like an accompaniment, while the Don, seeing that his antagonist had called a truce, had reined his own muse down into a “second.” Sustained by this and rising with her enthusiasm, Lucy’s voice came forth with a power and a pathos it had not shown before; and the mellow Guarnerius, kindling and enkindled in turn, rose to a passion almost human in its intensity. And before Mary’s eyes there seemed to float, as voice and violin rose and fell, and fell and rose, a vision (and it was her nature to dream dreams); there floated a vision as of two souls locked in eternal embrace and borne aloft on the wings of divinest music. She did not close her eyes that night; for, to add to the perturbation of her spirit, Mrs. Poythress, seeing Charley making ready to cross the River and spend the night under her roof, as he did every Friday, had so cordially invited the Don to accompany him that he, when the invitation was warmly seconded by Mr. Poythress and Lucy, had, after some hesitation, consented to do so. He had entered the very grotto of Circe. CHAPTER XLIV. The Poythresses were cordiality itself. No sooner had the Don’s foot crossed their threshold, than Mr. Poythress, taking him by the hand, gave him a warm welcome to Oakhurst. “Yes, you are truly welcome,” said Mrs. Poythress, taking the other hand; while Lucy, too, smiled in hospitable assent. The latter has told me since that she was struck, at the time, with a certain something very singular in his manner of meeting these courtesies. As the boat had neared the shore, she had observed that the Don grew more and more silent; and now, in response to greetings of such marked cordiality, he had merely bowed,—bowed low, but without a word. “Are you cold?” asked Mrs. Poythress, looking up into his face, as they entered the sitting-room. “Why, you are positively shivering! Mr. Poythress, do stir the fire. Are you subject to chills? No?” “The wind was very keen on the River,” said the Don. He spoke with difficulty, and as he leaned over the fire, warming his hands, his teeth chattered. Charley whispered to Mrs. Poythress. “Not a drop,” replied she; “you know Mr. Poythress will not allow a gill of anything of the kind to be kept in the house. I am so sorry.” “Well, it does not matter. Do you know it is past one o’clock? Suppose all of you go to bed and leave him to me.”