. We haven't had it for moons."

She played it, Phil turning the music. Then Kirkwood was reminded of the
existence of his 'cello. Amzi watched him tuning it, noted the operation
restlessly, and then rose demanding:--

"Nan, where's my flute? Seems to me I left it here the last time we
played."

This was a joke. It had been in the house at least six years. Phil
whistled a few bars from a current light opera, and pretended to be
absorbed in an old etching of Beethoven that hung over the piano. She
glanced covertly at her uncle, who knew perfectly well that Phil was
laughing at him. Nan, meanwhile, produced the flute. It was in this
fashion that the trio was usually organized.

"Bad night for asthma, but let's tackle some of the good old ones," said
Amzi.

This, too, was part of a familiar formula, and Rose found the music.
Soon Amzi's cheeks were puffing with the exertion of fluting the
"Minuet," while Kirkwood bent to the 'cello. Nan and Phil became an
attentive audience on the davenport, as often before. When Amzi dropped
out (as he always did), Phil piped in with her whistle, and that, too,
was the usual procedure. She whistled a fair imitation of the flute; she
had a "good ear"; Rose said her "ear" was too good, and that this
explained her impatience of systematic musical instruction. Amzi abused
the weather and incidentally the flute; they essayed the Bach-Gounod
"Ave Maria" and the "Traeumerei," with like failure on Amzi's part. Then
Rose played, number after number, Beethoven, Schumann, Chopin, without
pause. It was clear that the woman loved her music; that it meant a very
great deal to her. Its significance was in the fine lines of her face,
beautifully grave, but lighting wonderfully through passages that spoke
to her with special meaning. Her profile was toward Kirkwood. He had,
indeed, taken a seat that gave him a particular view that he fancied and
his eyes wandered from her hands to her lovely, high-bred face. No one
spoke between the numbers, or until Rose, sitting quiet a moment at the
end, while the last chord died away, found her own particular seat by
the white wooden mantel.

"I guess those chaps knew their business," observed Amzi. "And I guess
you know yours, Rose. I don't know that you ever brought out that
nocturne quite so well before. Eh, Tom?"

Kirkwood agreed with him. Rose had surpassed herself, in the opinion of
the lawyer. Both men found pleasure in paying tribute to her talents.
A