The greetings were soon over, and Quincy was assured by both young ladies that they were happy and contented, and that every requisite for their comfort had been supplied by Mrs. Gibson.

The reading then began.  Rosa possessed a full, flexible, dramatic voice, and the strong passages were delivered with great fervor, while the sad or sentimental ones were tinged with a tone of deep pathos.

At the conclusion Alice said, “I wish Miss Very could read my book to the publishers.”

“You forget,” remarked Leopold, with a laugh, “that reading it to me will probably amount to the same thing.”

A merry party gathered about Mrs. Gibson’s table at dinner, after which they went for a drive through the streets of the quaint old town.  Quincy had, as the phrenologists say, a great bump for locality.  Besides, he had studied a map of the town while coming down, and, as he remarked, they couldn’t get lost for any great length of time, as Nantucket was an island, and the water supplied a natural boundary to prevent their getting too far out of their way.

While Dolly Gibson was helping her mother by wiping the dinner dishes, she said, with that air of judicial conviction that is shown by some children, that she guessed that the lady in the red dress was Mr. Leopold’s girl, and that the blind lady in the blue dress was Mr. Quincy’s.

After a light supper they again gathered in the parlor and an hour was devoted to music.  Leopold neither played nor sang, but he was an attentive and critical listener.  It was a beautiful moonlight night, and Leopold asked Rosa if she would not like to take a walk up on the Cliff.  She readily consented, but Alice pleasantly declined Quincy’s invitation to accompany them, and for the first time since the old days at Mason’s Corner, he and she were alone together.

They talked of Eastborough and Mason’s Corner and Aunt Ella for a while.  Then conversation lagged and they sat for a time in a satisfied, peaceful silence.

Suddenly Quincy spoke.  “I had almost forgotten, Miss Pettengill, I bought a new song yesterday morning, and I brought it with me.  If you have no objection I will try, it over.”

“I always enjoy your singing,” she replied.

He ran down stairs and soon returned with the music.  He seated himself at the piano and played the piece through with great expression.

“It is a beautiful melody,” remarked Alice.  “What is it?”

“It is a German song,” replied Quincy, “by Reichardt.  It is called ‘Love’s Request.’  I will sing it this time.”

And he did sing it with all the force and fervor of a noble, manly nature, speaking out his love covertly in the words of another, but hoping in his heart that the beautiful girl who listened to him would forget the author and think only of the singer.  How many times young lovers have tried this artful trick, and in what proportion it has been successful only Heaven knows.