A bell sounded somewhere. She started. “I must go.” A thought crossed her face. “I wonder if you would like it--the recital?” She was looking at him, an amused question in her eyes. “Is it speaking pieces?” said Uncle William, cautiously. “Playing them, and singing--one or two. It’s a musicale, you know. You might like it--” She was still thinking, her forehead a little wrinkled. “They are nice girls and--Oh--?” the forehead suddenly lifted, “you _would_ like it. There are sea-pieces--MacDowell’s. They’re just the thing.--” She held him hospitably.--“Do come. You would be sure to enjoy it.” “Like enough,” said Uncle William. “It takes all kinds of singing to make a world. I might like ’em fust-rate. And it won’t take long?” “No--only an hour or two. You can leave _him_, can’t you?” The pretty forehead had wrinkled again. “Easy as not,” said Uncle William. “Best thing for him. He’ll have a chance to miss me a little.” She smiled at him reproachfully. “We’ll have to hurry, I’m afraid. It’s only a step. But we ought to go at once.” Uncle William followed in her wake, admiring the quick, lithe movements of the tall figure. Now that the flower-like face was turned away, she seemed larger, more vigorous. “A reg’lar clipper, and built for all kinds of weather,” said Uncle William as he followed fast. “I wouldn’t be afraid to trust her anywheres. She’d reef down quick in a blow.” He chuckled to himself. She looked around. “Here we are.” XIV They had paused at the foot of a flight of stairs. Down the narrow hall-way floated a mingled sound of voices, high and low, with drifting strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly withdrawn. The old man looked at her inquiringly. “They hain’t begun?” She shook her head. “They’re tuning up.” His face lifted a little. “I reckoned that couldn’t be the beginnin’. But ye can’t al’ays tell. They make queer noises sometimes.” “Yes.--I must leave you now.” She had ushered him into a small hall. “I’m going to have you sit here, quite near the platform, where I can see you.” She looked at him a little anxiously. “You don’t need to stay if you don’t like it, you know.” “Oh, I shall like it fust-rate,” he responded. “It looks like a real comf’tabul chair to set in.” He seated himself in it and beamed upon the room. The place she had selected for him was near the platform and facing a little toward the audience. It had occurred to her, in a last moment of indecision, that Uncle William might enjoy the audience if the music proved too classic for him. She left him with a little murmur of apology. A young girl in pink chiffon, with a bunch of huge pink roses, fluttered forward with a program.