They had reached her gate, and she set her hand upon it, but did not open it.  Bibbs felt that this was almost the kindest of her kindnesses—­not to be prompt in leaving him.

“After all,” she said, “you didn’t tell me whether you liked it.”

“No.  I didn’t need to.”

“No, that’s true, and I didn’t need to ask.  I knew.  But you said you were trying to keep from telling me what it did mean.”

“I can’t keep from telling it any longer,” he said.  “The music meant to me—­it meant the kindness of—­of you.”

“Kindness?  How?”

“You thought I was a sort of lonely tramp—­and sick—­”

“No,” she said, decidedly.  “I thought perhaps you’d like to hear Dr. Kraft play.  And you did.”

“It’s curious; sometimes it seemed to me that it was you who were playing.”

Mary laughed.  “I?  I strum!  Piano.  A little Chopin—­Grieg—­ Chaminade.  You wouldn’t listen!”

Bibbs drew a deep breath.  “I’m frightened again,” he said, in an unsteady voice.  “I’m afraid you’ll think I’m pushing, but—­” He paused, and the words sank to a murmur.

“Oh, if you want me to play for you!” she said.  “Yes, gladly.  It will be merely absurd after what you heard this afternoon.  I play like a hundred thousand other girls, and I like it.  I’m glad when any one’s willing to listen, and if you—­” She stopped, checked by a sudden recollection, and laughed ruefully.  “But my piano won’t be here after to-night.  I—­I’m sending it away to-morrow.  I’m afraid that if you’d like me to play to you you’d have to come this evening.”

“You’ll let me?” he cried.

“Certainly, if you care to.”

“If I could play—­” he said, wistfully, “if I could play like that old man in the church I could thank you.”

“Ah, but you haven’t heard me play.  I know you liked this afternoon, but—­”

“Yes,” said Bibbs.  “It was the greatest happiness I’ve ever known.”

It was too dark to see his face, but his voice held such plain honesty, and he spoke with such complete unconsciousness of saying anything especially significant, that she knew it was the truth.  For a moment she was nonplussed, then she opened the gate and went in.  “You’ll come after dinner, then?”

“Yes,” he said, not moving.  “Would you mind if I stood here until time to come in?”

She had reached the steps, and at that she turned, offering him the response of laughter and a gay gesture of her muff toward the lighted windows of the New House, as though bidding him to run home to his dinner.

That night, Bibbs sat writing in his note-book.

  Music can come into a blank life, and fill it.  Everything that
  is beautiful is music, if you can listen.