himself ready to
follow.

"Good night, Miss Byrom," said Mary.

"Good night, miss," returned Ann, grimly. "I'm sorry for you both,
miss. But, until the spirit is poured out from on high, it's nothing
but a stumbling in the dark."

This last utterance was a reflection rather than a remark.

Mary made no reply. She did not care to have the last word; nor did she
fancy her cause lost when she had not at hand the answer that befitted
folly. She ran down the stair, and at the bottom stood waiting her new
acquaintance, who descended more slowly, careful not to make a noise.

She could now see, by the gaslight that burned on the landing, a little
more of what the man was. He was powerfully built, rather over middle
height, and about the age of thirty. His complexion was dark, and the
hand that held the bow looked grimy. He bore himself well, but a little
stiffly, with a care over his violin like that of a man carrying a
baby. He was decidedly handsome, in a rugged way--mouth and chin but
hinted through a thick beard of darkest brown.

"Come this way," said Mary, leading him into Letty's parlor. "I will
tell my friend you are come. Her room, you see, opens off this, and she
will hear you delightfully. Pray, take a seat."

"Thank you, miss," said the man, but remained standing.

"I have caught the bird, Letty," said Mary, loud enough for him to
hear; "and he is come to sing a little to you--if you feel strong
enough for it."

"It will do me good," said Letty. "How kind of him!"

The man, having heard, was already tuning his violin when Mary came
from the bedroom, and sat down on the sofa. The instant he had got it
to his mind, he turned, and, going to the farthest corner of the room,
closed his eyes tight, and began to play.

But how shall I describe that playing? how convey an idea of it,
however remote? I fear it is nothing less than presumption in me, so
great is my ignorance, to attempt the thing. But would it be right, for
dread of bringing shame upon me through failure, to leave my readers
without any notion of it at all? On the other hand, I shall, at least,
have the merit of daring to fail--a merit of which I could well be
ambitious.

If, then, my reader will imagine some music-loving sylph attempting to
guide the wind among the strings of an Aeolian harp, every now and then
for a moment succeeding, and then again for a while the wind having its
own way, he will gain, I think, something like a dream-notion