o recall her favorites to mind, for
of course she could not be playing by note. Then she strayed into a
"valse" by Chopin, and followed it with a dashing galop by some unknown
composer. "She is a classical musician," said Quincy to himself, as the
first bars of a Rhapsodic Hongroise by Liszt fell upon his ear. "I hope
she knows some of the old English ballads and the best of the popular
songs," thought Quincy.

As if in answer to his wish she played that sterling old song, "Tis but
a Little Faded Flower," and Quincy listened with pleasure to the pure,
sweet, soprano voice that rang out full and strong and seemed to reach
and permeate every nook and corner in the old homestead.

Quincy could stand it no longer. He stepped quietly to his door, opened
it wide, and listened with delight to the closing lines of the song.

Then she sang that song that thrilled the hearts of thousands of English
soldiers in the Crimea on the eve of the battle of Inkermann, "Annie
Laurie," and it was with difficulty that Quincy refrained from joining
in the chorus. Surely Annie Laurie could have been no purer, no sweeter,
no more beautiful, than Alice Pettengill; and Quincy felt that he could
do and die for the girl who was singing in the parlor, as truly as would
have the discarded suitor who wrote the immortal song.

But Quincy was destined to be still more astonished. Alice played a
short prelude that seemed familiar to him, and then her voice rang out
the words of that beautiful duet that Quincy had sung with Lindy Putnam
at the singing-master's concert. Yes, it was Jewell's "Over the Bridge."
This was too much for Quincy. He went quietly down the stairs and looked
in at the parlor door, which was wide open. Alice was seated at the
piano, and again the sun, in its westward downward course, shone in at
the window, and lighted up her crown of golden hair. This time she had
reversed the colors which she evidently knew became her so well, and
wore a dress of light pink, while a light blue knitted shawl, similar to
its pink companion, lay upon the chair beside her.

When she reached the duet Quincy did not attempt to control himself any
further, but joined in with her, and they sang the piece together to the
end.

Alice turned upon the piano stool, faced the door and clapped her hands.

"That was capital, Mr. Sawyer. I didn't know that you sang so well. In
fact, I didn't know that you sang at all."

"How did you know it was I?" said Quin