"Sick Children's Aid."
I folded the notes and inserted them in the aperture on top.

Miss Grant watched me closely all the while.

When I got back behind the counter, she went over to the box and read
the label. She opened her purse, with calm deliberation, and poured
all it contained into her hand. She then inserted the coins, one by
one, in the opening of the box and, with honours still even, if not in
her favour, she sailed out of the store.

I was annoyed and chagrined at the turn of events, yet, when I came to
consider her side of the argument, I could not blame her altogether for
the stand she had taken.

I put up her order in no very pleasant frame of mind.

When I saw her and her chaperon row out from the wharf into the Bay, I
carried over the groceries, piecemeal, and placed them in a shady place
on their veranda. I then turned back to the house and prepared my
evening meal.

When the sun had gone down and darkness had crept over Golden Crescent,
I returned to my hammock and my reading, setting a small oil lamp on
the window ledge behind me. It was agreeably cool then and all was
peace and harmony.

From where I lay, I could cast my eyes over the land and seascapes now
and again. I commanded a good view of the house across the creek. The
kitchen lamp was alight there and I could see figures passing backward
and forward.

Suddenly an extra light travelled from the kitchen to the front parlour
and, soon after, a ripple of music floated on the evening air.

I listened. How I listened!--like a famished cougar at the sound of a
deer.

The music was sweet, delicious, full of fantastic melody. It was the
light, airy music of Sullivan; and not a halt, not even a falter did
the player make as she tripped and waltzed through the opera. One
picture after another rose before me and dissolved into still others,
as the old, haunting tunes caught my ears, floating from that open
window.

I could see the lady under the soft glow of the lamp, sitting at the
piano, smiling and all absorbed,--the light gleaming gold on her coils
of luxuriant hair.

After a time the mood of the pianist changed. She drifted into the
deeper, the more sombre, more impressive "Kamennoi-Ostrow" of
Rubinstein. She played it softly, so softly, yet so expressively
sadly, that I was drawn by its alluring to leave my veranda and cross
over the wooden bridge, in order to be nearer and to hear better.

Quietly, but quite openly, I