So they trooped in, a somewhat less faultlessly attired party than they had gone out, for Sally’s curls were more rebellious than ever, Josephine’s skirts had a mud stain on their hem, Jarvis’s rent showed plainly, and everybody’s foot-gear was decidedly the worse for the run over wet sod and fresh earth.  But they had left behind them all stiffness born of untried acquaintance, had discovered that there was nobody in the company who could not be depended upon to play a gallant part in whatever emergency might arise, and were in a mood thoroughly to enjoy the remainder of the visit.

Without being asked again Janet went straight to the piano, sat down at it as if it were the old friend it claimed to be, and with one or two affectionate soft layings of her hands upon it in almost noiseless chords, as if she were asking it something to which it responded under its breath, swept into a movement from one of the greatest compositions the world knows.

When she finished she looked up at her brother, who had come to stand close beside the instrument.  Her eyes were full of tears, and his were by no means free from a suspicion of moisture.  Evidently the sound of the familiar keys had many associations for both, and they were associations which their mother shared, for her face was turned away toward the open window, and she was very still.

But in a minute more Janet had turned to beckon to her friend, and was beginning an accompaniment without so much as waiting for Constance to reach the piano.  Smiling, the tall girl found a place beside it just in time to take up her part.  And then—­the listeners held their breath.  The golden notes rang through the rooms and out upon the warm May air, while the singer herself seemed as little to be “performing” as if the song had been a mere child’s play tune.

“What made you start with that?” protested Constance, in her friend’s ear, the moment it was over.  “Such a show song!”

But Donald, from the other side of the piano, leaned across.  “Don’t mind,” he whispered.  “Any of the simple things would have done us out just now.”

Constance nodded quickly.  The next minute, with a word to Janet, she had plunged into a gay little German song, with a spirit in it as light as the spring itself, and every one was smiling.

When they had gone, Jarvis, passing through the hall with a glance into the room where the piano stood, caught a glimpse of Sally standing by the open window, looking after the four who were just disappearing through the hedge.  He crossed the room softly and looked out over her head.

“They’re all right, aren’t they?” said he.

“Splendid!” agreed Sally.  “I like them both, even more than I expected.”  Then she added, in a lower tone, “I’d give the hair off my head to be able to make such music as that, either with my hands or with my voice.”

Jarvis, smiling to himself, unperceived touched one fair strand with a reverent hand.  “I wouldn’t give,” said he, “even for such magnificent music as that, so much as that one curl over your right ear—­if another wouldn’t grow there in its place.”