“Yes—­by asking for some more of that tender music of the Fatherland.  My mother used to croon that song over us in childhood.”

Mr. Winthrop joined his commands; so I complied, with a German martial song; and then, rising quickly, I went to the further side of the room, and took a seat beside Mrs. Hill.

“You have got tired before the rest of us, dear.”

“I would not like to tire you.  Mr. Bovyer is going to play now, and we shall none of us be in danger of weariness.”

And he did play as I had never heard him do before, filling the room with harmonies that sometimes grew painful in their excess of sweetness.  Conversation ceased utterly—­a compliment not usually paid to musicians, I had noticed, in Cavendish.

I glanced occasionally at Mr. Winthrop, who had taken a seat not far from where I was sitting.  He sat with eyes closed, but not betraying, by a single muscle of the strong, self-contained face, that the music was affecting him in the slightest.

“This evening has given us something to remember until our dying day,” Mrs. Hill said, with a deep sigh of satisfaction, after Mr. Bovyer ceased playing.  “It was exceedingly kind in Mr. Winthrop permitting us to share in the evening’s enjoyment.”

“Was it for this he invited you?” I asked, with surprise.

“That was the inducement to leave our homes on Christmas Day.  But we do not need a special inducement to come to Oaklands; we always consider it a high privilege to be Mr. Winthrop’s guest.”

“Yes, he can be very charming when he chooses,” I said, unthinkingly, but very sorry for my remark directly it was uttered.  “Then you were only invited here this morning, since Mr. Bovyer had only just arrived?” I asked.

“Oh, no, indeed; our invitations were received a week ago.  Mr. Winthrop knew he was coming.”

All these people knew Mr. Bovyer was coming, and a gala time planned for Christmas, and I was kept in ignorance.  Mr. Winthrop don’t regard me of enough importance to be intrusted with the merest trifles of everyday life, I thought, sorrowfully; but just then my eye fell on the ring, when it flashed into my gloomy heart a ray of light brighter than any sunbeam.

The two following days I was so absorbed in my Christmas tree that I paid very little attention to our guest, or anything going on about me, save what was directly connected with the duty in hand.  A list of all the names had first to be got, and then each gift properly labeled.  Muslin bags, ornamented with bright-colored wools, were to be made, and filled with nuts and confectionery; and, last of all, the tree had to be dressed.  Mr. Bowen and Daniel Blake entered so heartily into the spirit of the undertaking that I found my own labors greatly lessened.  Thomas cheerfully gave up his most cherished plans to carry the supplies to the hall, and things generally went on very satisfactorily.  Others, too, sent in hampers filled with Christmas dainties; among the rest, one from Mrs. Hill, to whom I had very fully described my undertaking.  Mrs. Blake watched the heap slowly accumulating with a very preoccupied face; at last she spoke her mind freely: