the soft, rich colours of the Chinese
embroideries. The embroideries were on the wall beyond the piano, so
that she could see them while she played. Uncle Charlie wasn't in her
range of vision unless she turned her head; but she could smell his
cigar, and could sense him sitting there very quiet in a big wicker
chair, smoking, his eyes half closed, his bandaged foot stretched out on
a little stool.

And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus, and
her rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the embroideries,
and the hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all seemed to
intermingle and pierce to her very soul. She was glad to play the piano.
When deeply moved she loved to play, to pour out her feelings in dreamy
melodies and deep vibrant harmonies with queer minor cadences thrown
in--the kind of music you can play "with expression," while you vision
mysterious, poetic pictures.

After a moment's reflection, she decided on "The Angel's Serenade";
she knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something
brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she
could almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the
silvery sheen of them astir. And, oddly, all that sheen and stir, all
that sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself--just as if
her own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard.

And with Missy, to play "The Angel's Serenade" was to crave playing
more such divine pieces; she drifted on into "Traumerei"; "Simple
Confession"; "One Sweetly Solemn Thought," with variations. She played
them all with extra "expression," putting all her loving sympathy for
Uncle Charlie into her finger-tips. And he must have been soothed by it,
for he dozed off, and came to with a start when she finally paused, to
tell her how beautifully she played.

Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was like
grandpa--the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep, unusual
things. They talked about music, and the meaning of the pieces she'd
played. Then about reading. He asked her what she was reading nowadays.

"This is your book, isn't it?" he enquired, picking up "The Romances of
King Arthur" from the table beside him. Heavens! how tactless of her to
have brought it down this morning! But there was nothing for her to do,
save to act in a natural, casual manner.

"Yes," she said.

Uncle Charlie opened the book. Heavens! it fell