osed put aside by a little shake of
her head, and smiling glance at the piano. Sometimes it was simple
wilfulness that made her silent; but Northcote set it down to an
angelical sweetness which would not wound even the worst of performances
by inattention. They were happy enough sitting there under the shelter
of the piano, the young man absorbed in the dreams of a young love, the
girl just beginning to realize the adoration which she was receiving,
with a timid perception of it--half-frightened, half-grateful. She was
in spite of herself amused by the idea only half understood, and which
she could scarcely believe, that this big grown man, so much more
important than herself in everybody's eyes, should show so much respect
to a little girl whom her father scolded, whom Reginald sent trotting
about on all sorts of errands, and whom Cousin Anne and Cousin Sophy
considered a child. It was very strange, a thing to call forth
inextinguishable laughter, and yet with a strange touch of sweetness in
it, which almost made her cry in wondering gratitude. What she thought
of him, Ursula did not ask herself; that he should think _like this_ of
her was the bewildering, extraordinary, ridiculous fact that at present
filled her girlish head.

But if they were sweet to Northcote, these evenings were the crown of
Clarence Copperhead's content and conscious success; he was supremely
happy, caressing his fiddle between his cheek and his shoulder, and
raising his pale eyes to the ceiling in an ecstasy. The music, and the
audience, and the accompanyist all together were delightful to him. He
could have gone on he felt not only till midnight, but till morning, and
so on to midnight again, with short intervals for refreshment. Every ten
minutes or so there occurred a break in the continuity of the strain,
and a little dialogue between the performers.

"Ah, yes, I have missed a line; never mind; go on, Miss Phoebe, I will
make up to you," he said.

"It is those accidentals that have been your ruin," said Phoebe laughing;
"it is a very hard passage, let us turn back and begin again," and then
the audience would laugh, not very sweetly, and (some of them) make
acrid observations; but the pianist was good-nature itself, and went
back and counted and kept time with her head, and with her hand when she
could take it from the piano, until she had triumphantly tided him over
the bad passage, or they had come to the point of shipwreck again.
Durin