walk
with a manly stride, make the tails of their dresses go like the screw
of a steamer behind them, and are not unfrequently Scotch.

As Mary went up, the music ceased; but, hoping Miss Byrom would be able
to enlighten her concerning its source, she continued her ascent, and
knocked at her door. A voice, rather wooden, yet not without character,
invited her to enter.

Ann sat near the window, for, although it was quite dusk, a little use
might yet be made of the lingering ghost of the daylight. Almost all
Mary could see of her was the reflection from the round eyes of a pair
of horn spectacles.

"How do you do, Miss Byrom?" she said.

"Not at all well," answered Ann, almost in a tone of offense.

"Is there nothing I can do for you?" asked Mary.

"We are to owe no man anything but love, the apostle tells us."

"You must owe a good deal of that, then," said Mary, one part vexed,
and two parts amused, "for you don't seem to pay much of it."

She was just beginning to be sorry for what she had said when she was
startled by a sound, very like a little laugh, which seemed to come
from behind her. She turned quickly, but, before she could see anything
through the darkness, the softest of violin-tones thrilled the air
close beside her, and then she saw, seated on the corner of Ann's bed,
the figure of a man--young or old, she could not tell. How could he
have kept so still! His bow was wandering slowly about over the strings
of his violin; but presently, having overcome, as it seemed, with the
help of his instrument, his inclination to laugh, he ceased, and all
was still.

"I came," said Mary, turning again to Ann, "hoping you might be able to
tell me where the sweet sounds came from which we have heard now two or
three times; but I had no idea there was any one in the room besides
yourself.--They come at intervals a great deal too long," she added,
turning toward the figure in the darkness.

"I am afraid my ear is out sometimes," said the man, mistaking her
remark. "I think it comes of the anvil."

The voice was manly, though gentle, and gave an impression of utter
directness and simplicity. It was Mary's turn, however, not to
understand, and she made no answer.

"I am very sorry," the musician went on, "if I annoyed you, miss."

Mary was hastening to assure him that the fact was quite the other way,
when Ann prevented her.

"I told you so!" she said; "_you_ make an idol of your foolish
plaything, but othe