that you should give her some
hints as to the performance of a number of my songs. Yes, I have devoted
much time to your art as well as to poetry. Hitherto I have written
ninety-seven songs, both words and music. Yes, I have been industrious.
If my niece had my industry she would know them all by this time.'

Ortensia bent still lower, till her face almost touched the frets of the
instrument, and she was biting her lip; but Stradella was imperturbable.

'I trust you may be spared to contribute many more beautiful
compositions to the art treasures of our country,' he said politely.

'I hope so,' answered Pignaver with gravity.

And then--Ortensia looked up, and for the second time her eyes met the
musician's, and she felt that he and she already understood each other.

With many patronising smiles on the Senator's part, and many flattering
expressions of admiration and respectful salutations from Stradella, the
two parted and Pignaver took himself off, leaving his niece to take her
first lesson under the guardianship of the nurse, who moved her chair so
that she could watch the pair while she was busy with her lace.

For a few seconds neither spoke, and they looked at each other in
silence as if making better acquaintance through their eyes alone, by
which they had quickly reached a first degree of understanding.
Stradella's face was quite grave, while Ortensia's lips were just
parted, as if she were ready to smile, if he would. But he would not,
and he was the first to speak.

'How shall we begin?' he asked.

Ortensia hesitated and touched the strings of her lute idly, as it lay
across her knee, just kept from slipping down by the broad ribband.

'When you came,' she said at last, 'I had been trying to learn a song of
yours. It is beautiful. Will you show me how to sing it?'

She blushed faintly, and he smiled; but he shook his head.

'I saw it lying there as soon as I came in,' he said. 'But I understand
it to be the Senator's wish that we should study his music rather than
mine.'

She was disappointed, and did not try to hide it; but she was not used
to asserting her own will, and her uncle's word had always been law in
his house, to be obeyed whether he were present or not. As for
Stradella, he would have sung his own song for her with delight, but he
distrusted the woman in grey, who might be a spy for all he knew. He
carefully withdrew his lute from the purple bag and began to tune the
strings. It was