Mr. Ridsdale had perhaps never touched, and rarely heard, anything so bad as the old cracked piano which Lottie had inherited from her mother, and which was of the square form now obsolete, of a kind which brokers (the only dealers in the article) consider very convenient, as combining the character of a piano and a sideboard. Very often had Lottie’s piano served the purpose of a sideboard, but it was too far gone to be injured--nothing could make it worse. Nevertheless Mr. Ridsdale played the accompaniments upon it, without a word, to Lottie’s admiration and wonder, for he seemed to be able to draw forth at his fingers’ ends a volume of sound which she did not suppose to be within the power of the old instrument. He had brought several songs with him, being fully minded to hear her that morning, whatever obstacles might be in the way. But it so happened that there were no obstacles whatever in the way; and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was of the greatest service as audience. With the true talent of a manager, Mr. Ridsdale addressed himself to the subjugation of his public. He placed before Lottie the song from “Marta,” to which, hearing it thus named, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy prepared herself to listen with a certain amiable scorn. “Ah, we shall have you crying in five minutes,” he said. “Is it me you’re meaning?” she cried in high scorn. But the fact was that when the melting notes of “The Last Rose of Summer” came forth from Lottie’s lips, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was altogether taken by surprise, and carried out Rollo’s prophecy to the letter by weeping abundantly. There was much of Mr. Ridsdale’s music which Lottie could not sing--indeed, it would have been wonderful if she had been able to do so, as he had brought with him the finest _morceaux_ of a dozen operas, and Lottie’s musical education had been of the slightest. But he so praised, and flattered, and encouraged her, that she went on from song to song at his bidding, making the best attempt at them that was possible, while Mrs. O’Shaughnessy sat by and listened. Her presence there was of the utmost consequence to them. It at once converted Rollo’s visit into something allowable and natural, and it gave him a pretence for beginning what was really an examination into Lottie’s powers and compass, at once of voice and of intelligence. Lottie, innocent of any scheme, or of any motive he could have, save simple pleasure in her singing, exerted herself to please him with the same mixture of gratitude and happy prepossession with which she had thought of him for so long. If she could give a little pleasure to him who had given her his love and his heart (for what less could it be that he had given her?), it was her part, she thought, to do so. She felt that she owed him everything she could do for him, to recompense him for that gift which he had given her unawares. So she stood by him in a soft humility, not careful that she was showing her own ignorance, thinking only of pleasing him.