ous that the hour
was late, and that he himself had been noisy at unbeseeming hours.
"What's the matter with you?" And, with a sudden thought, he threw
open the door.

It was merely Mary Ann.

Her face--flashed so unexpectedly upon him--had the piquancy of a
vision, but its expression was one of confusion and guilt; there were
tears on her cheeks; in her hand was a bed-room candlestick.

She turned quickly, and began to mount the stairs. Lancelot put his
hand on her shoulder, and turned her face towards him, and said in an
imperious whisper:

"Now then, what's up? What are you crying about?"

"I ain't--I mean I'm _not_ crying," said Mary Ann, with a sob in her
breath.

"Come, come, don't fib. What's the matter?"

"I'm not crying; it's only the music," she murmured.

"The music," he echoed, bewildered.

"Yessir. The music always makes me cry--but you can't call it
crying--it feels so nice."

"Oh, then you've been listening!"

"Yessir." Her eyes drooped in humiliation.

"But you ought to have been in bed," he said. "You get little enough
sleep as it is."

"It's better than sleep," she answered.

The simple phrase vibrated through him like a beautiful minor chord.
He smoothed her hair tenderly.

"Poor child!" he said.

There was an instant's silence. It was past midnight, and the house
was painfully still. They stood upon the dusky landing, across which a
bar of light streamed from his half-open door, and only Beethoven's
eyes were upon them. But Lancelot felt no impulse to fondle her; only
just to lay his hand on her hair, as in benediction and pity.

"So you liked what I was playing," he said, not without a pang of
personal pleasure.

"Yessir; I never heard you play that before."

"So you often listen!"

"I can hear you, even in the kitchen. Oh, it's just lovely! I don't
care what I have to do then, if it's grates or plates or steps. The
music goes and goes, and I feel back in the country again, and
standing, as I used to love to stand of an evening, by the stile, under
the big elm, and watch how the sunset did redden the white birches, and
fade in the water. Oh, it was so nice in the springtime, with the
hawthorn that grew on the other bank, and the bluebells----"

The pretty face was full of dreamy tenderness, the eyes lit up
witchingly. She pulled herself up suddenly, and stole a shy glance at
her auditor.

"Yes, yes, go on," he said; "tell me all you feel about the music.