This time he did not do all the talking, but made me talk, and listened carefully to all I said; and I was so happy, talking was not any effort.

At last he made some allusion to the music of last night; that he was so glad to see that I loved music as I did.  “But I don’t particularly,” I said in confusion, with a great fear of being dishonest, “at least I never thought I did before, and I am so ignorant.  I don’t want you to think I know anything about it, for you would be disappointed.”  He was silent, and, I felt sure, because he was already disappointed; in fear of which I went on to say—­

“I never heard any one sing like that before; I am very sorry that it gave any one an impression that I had a knowledge of music, when I hadn’t.  I don’t care about it generally, except in church, and I can’t understand what made me feel so yesterday.”

“Perhaps it is because you were in the mood for it,” he said.  “It is often so, one time music gives us pleasure, another time it does not.”

“That may be so; but your voice, in speaking, even, seems to me different from any other.  It is almost as good as music when you speak; only the music fills me with such feelings.”

“You must let me sing for you again,” he said, rather low, as we walked slowly on.

“Ah; if you only will,” I answered, with a deep sigh of satisfaction.

We walked on in silence till we reached the gate:  he opened it for me and then said, “Now I must leave you, and go back for the oars.”

I was secretly glad of this; since the walk had reached its natural limit and its end must be accepted, it was a relief to approach the house alone and not be the subject of any observation.

Breakfast had began:  no one seemed to feel much interest in my entrance, though flaming with red roses and red cheeks.

They were of the sex that do not notice such things naturally, with much interest or admiration.  They had hardly “shaken off drowsy-hed,” and had no pleasure in anything but their breakfast, and not much in that.

“How do you manage to get yourself up and dressed at such inhuman hours?” said Mary Leighton, querulously.

“You are a reproach to the household, and we will not suffer it,” said Charlotte Benson.

“I never could understand this thing of getting up before you are obliged to,” added Henrietta plaintively.

But Sophie seemed well satisfied, particularly when Mr. Langenau came in and I looked down into my cup of tea, instead of saying good-morning to him.  He did not say very much, though there was a good deal of babble among the others, principally about his music.

It was becoming the fashion to be very attentive to him.  He was made to promise to play in the evening; to bring down his books of music for the benefit of Miss Henrietta, who wanted to practice, Heaven knows what of his.  His advice was asked about styles of playing and modes of instruction; he was deferred to as an authority.  But very little he seemed to care about it all, I thought.