ding separation into pairs. Ursula out of very shyness and
fright alone, lest another chapter of the strange, novel, too moving
love-tale might be poured into her ears; but Phoebe with more settled
purpose, to prevent any disclosure on the part of Reginald. The evening
was mixed up of pleasure and pain to the two young men, each eager to
find himself alone with the girl whom he loved; but it is to be feared
the girls themselves had a furtive guilty enjoyment of it, which they
ought not to have had. Open and outrageous love-making is not half so
delicate a pastime as that in which nothing distinct dare be said, but
all is implication, conveyed and understood without words. I know it is
a dangerous thing to confess, but veracity requires the confession; you
may say it was the playing of the cat with the mouse, if you wish to
give a disagreeable version of it; but, however you choose to explain
it, this was how it was.

It was with fear and trembling at last that Phoebe went to the piano,
which was at the other end of the room, after making all the resistance
which was possible.

"Thank Heaven, that idiot and his fiddle aren't here to-night to
interfere!" cried Reginald.

Phoebe shook her head at him, but ventured on no words; and how she did
exert herself on the piano, playing things which were a great deal too
classical for Reginald, who would have preferred the simplest stock
piece, under cover of which he might have talked to her hanging over her
chair, and making belief to turn over the music! This was what he
wanted, poor fellow. He had no heart nor ears for Beethoven, which Phoebe
played to him with a tremor in her heart, and yet, the wicked little
witch, with some enjoyment too.

"This is not the sort of thing you play when Copperhead is here," he
said at last, driven to resistance.

"Oh, we play Mendelssohn," said Phoebe, with much show of innocence; and
then she added, "You ought to feel the compliment if I play Beethoven to
you."

"So I ought, I suppose," said Reginald. "The truth is, I don't care for
music. Don't take your hands off the keys."

"Why, you have done nothing but worry me to play!"

"Not for the music," said Reginald, quite satisfied to have got his
will. "Why will you not talk to me and play to me, as I wish?"

"Perhaps, if I knew what you wish--" Phoebe said, in spite of herself.

"Oh, how I should like to tell you! No, not Beethoven; a little, just a
little music. Heavens!" cried Reg