not the angels. It was the same instrument we heard the other night. Who can there be in the house to play like that! It was clearer this time. I thought I could listen to it a whole year."

"Why didn't you wake me?" said Letty.

"Because the more you sleep the better. And the doctor says I mustn't let you talk. I will get you something, and then you must go to sleep again."

Tom did not appear any more that night; and if they had wanted him now, they would not have known where to find him. He was about nothing very badonly supping with some friends-such friends as he did not even care to tell that he had a son.

He was ashamed of being in London at this time of the and but that he had not money enough to go year, anywhere except to his mother's, he would have gone, and left Letty to shift for herself.

With his child he was pleased, and would not seldom take him for a few moments; but when he cried, he was cross with him, and showed himself the unreasonable baby of the two.

The angels did not want Letty just yet, and she slowly recovered.

For Mary it was a peaceful time. She was able to read a good deal, and, although there were no books in Mr. Redmain's house, she generally succeeded in getting such as she wanted. She was able also to practise as much as she pleased, for now the grand piano was entirely at her service, and she took the opportunity of having a lesson every day.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MUSICIAN.

ONE evening, soon after the baby's arrival, as Mary sat with him in her lap, the sweet tones they had heard twice before, came creeping into her ears so gently, that she seemed to be aware of their presence only after they had been for some time coming and going: she laid the baby down, and stealing from the room, listened on the landing. Certainly the sounds were born in the house, but whether they came from below or above she could not tell. Going first down the stair, and then up, she soon satisfied herself that they came from above, and thereupon ventured a little farther up the stair.

She had already been to see the dressmaker, whom she had come to know through the making of Hesper's twilight robe of cloud, had found her far from well, and had done what she could for her. But she was in no want, and of more than ordinary independence—a Yorkshire woman, about forty years of age, delicate, but of great patience and courage; a plain, fair, freckled woman, with a belief in religion rather than in God. Very strict therefore in her observances, she thought a great deal more of the Sabbath than of man, a great deal more of the Bible than of the truth, and ten times more of her creed than of the will of God; and had she heard any one utter such words as I have just written, would have Isaid he was an atheist. She was a worthy creature, notwithstanding, only very unpleasant if one happened to step on the toes of a pet ignorance. Mary soon discovered that there was no profit in talking with her on

the subjects she loved most: plainly she knew little about them, except at second hand-that is through the forms of other minds than her own. Such people seem intended for the special furtherance of the saints in patience; being utterly unassailable by reason, they are especially trying to those who desire to stand on brotherly terms with all men, and so are the more sensitive to the rudeness that always goes with moral stupidity: intellectual stupidity may coexist with the loveliness of an angel. It is one of the blessed hopes of the world to come, that there will be none such in it. But why so many words? I say to myself: will one of such as I mean, recognize his portrait in my sketch? Many such have I met in my young days, and in my old days I find they swarm still. I could wish that all such had to earn their own bread like Ann Byrom: had she been rich, she would have been unbearable. Women like her, when they are well to do, 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 offence.

"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 towards 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, noyed you, miss.”

"if I an

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 other people take it only for the nuisance it is."

"Indeed you never were more mistaken," said Mary. "Both Mrs. Helmer and myself are charmed with the little that reaches us. It is indeed seldom one hears tones of such purity."

The player responded with a sigh of pleasure.

"Now there you are, miss,” cried Ann, "a flattering of his folly till not a word I say will be of the smallest use!" "If your words are not wise," said Mary, with suppressed indignation, "the less he heeds them the better."

"It ain't wise, to my judgment, miss, to make a man think himself something when he is nothing. It's quite enough a man should deceive his own self, without another to come and help him."

"To speak the truth is not to deceive," replied Mary. "I have some knowledge of music, and I say only what is true."

"What good can it be spending his time scraping horse-hair athort catgut!"

"They must fancy some good in it up in heaven," said Mary, "or they wouldn't have so much of it there." "There ain't no fiddles in heaven,” said Ann, with indignation; "they've nothing there but harps and trumpets." Mary turned to the man, who had not said a word. "Would you mind coming down with me," she said, "and playing a little, very softly, to my friend? She has a little baby, and is not strong. It would do her good." "She'd better read her bible," said Ann, who, finding she could no longer see, was lighting a candle.

"She does read her bible," returned Mary; "and a little music would perhaps help her to read it to better purpose."

Mary Marston. II.

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