le that she felt loth to let her depart; to
leave her, perhaps, to some memory of the past as painful as the one she
had interrupted. If she had spoken her exact mind she would have
said:--"No, don't go yet. I can't talk much, but it makes me happy to
sit here in the growing dusk and hear about Dave. It brings the child
back to me, and does my heart good." That was the upshot of her thought,
but she felt that their acquaintance was too short to warrant it. She
was bound to make an effort, if not to entertain, at least to bear her
share of the conversation.

"Tell me more about Davy, when you had him at the Cottage. Did he talk
about me?" This followed her declaration that she was "not tired yet" in
a voice that lost force audibly. Her visitor chose a wiser course than
to make a parade of her readiness to take a hint and begone. She chatted
on about Dave's stay with her a year since, about little things the
story knows already, while the old lady vouched at intervals--quite
truly--that she heard every word, and that her closed eyes did not mean
sleep. The incident of Dave's having persisted--when he awaked and found
"mother" looking at him, the day after his first arrival--that it was
old Mrs. Picture upstairs, and how they thought the child was still
dreaming, was really worth the telling. Old Maisie showed her amusement,
and felt bound to rouse herself to say:--"The name is not really
Picture, but it doesn't matter. I like Dave's name--Mrs. Picture!" It
was an effort, and when she added:--"The name is really Prichard," her
voice lost strength, and her hearer lost the name. Fate seemed against
Dave's pronunciation being corrected.

You know the game we used to call Magic Music--we oldsters, when we were
children? You know how, from your seat at the piano, you watched your
listener striving to take the hints you strove to give, and wandering
aimlessly away from the fire-irons he should have shouldered--the book
he should have read upside down--the little sister he should have kissed
or tickled--what not? You remember the obdurate pertinacity with which
he missed fire, and balked the triumphant outburst that should have
greeted his success? Surely, if some well-wisher among the choir of
Angels, harping with their harps, had been at Chorlton then and there,
under contract to guide Destiny, by playing loud and soft--not giving
unfair hints--to the reuniting of the long-lost sisters, that Angel
would have been hard tried to