All eyes were fixed upon them as they moved towards the piano, accompanied by Mr. Harwood, for something about their manners, appearance and conversation, had interested nearly all in the room who had been led to notice them particularly.  The sister who could not sing, seated herself with an air of easy confidence at the instrument, while the other stood near her.  The first few touches that passed over the keys showed that the performer knew well how to give to music a soul.  The tones that came forth were not the simple vibrations of a musical chord, but expressions of affection given by her whose fingers woke the strings into harmony.  But if the preluding touches fell witchingly upon every ear, how exquisitely sweet and thrilling was the voice that stole out low and tremulous at first, and deepened in volume and expression every moment, until the whole room seemed filled with melody!  Every whisper was hushed, and every one bent forward almost breathlessly to listen.  And when, at length, both voice and instrument were hushed into silence, no enthusiastic expressions of admiration were heard, but only half-whispered ejaculations of “exquisite!” “sweet!” “beautiful!” Then came earnestly expressed wishes for another and another song, until the sisters, feeling at length that many must be wearied with their long continued occupation of the piano, felt themselves compelled to decline further invitations to sing.  No one else ventured to touch a key of the instrument during the evening.

“Do pray, Mrs. Lemmington, tell me who those girls are—­I am dying to know,” said Mrs. Marygold, crossing the room to where the person she addressed was seated with Mrs. Florence and several other ladies of “distinction,” and taking a chair by her side.

“They are only common people,” replied Mrs. Lemmington, with affected indifference.

“Common people, my dear madam!  What do you mean by such an expression?” said Mrs. Florence in surprise, and with something of indignation latent in her tone.

“I’m sure their father, Mr. Clayton, is nothing but a teacher.”

“Mr. Clayton!  Surely those are not Clayton’s daughters!” ejaculated Mrs. Marygold, in surprise.

“They certainly are ma’am,” replied Mrs. Florence in a quiet but firm voice, for she instantly perceived, from something in Mrs. Marygold’s voice and manner, the reason why her friend had alluded to them as common people.

“Well, really, I am surprised that Mrs. Harwood should have invited them to her house, and introduced them into genteel company.”

“Why so, Mrs. Marygold?”

“Because, as Mrs. Lemmington has just said, they are common people.  Their father is nothing but a schoolmaster.”

“If I have observed them rightly,” Mrs. Florence said to this, “I have discovered them to be a rather uncommon kind of people.  Almost any one can thrum on the piano; but you will not find one in a hundred who can perform with such exquisite grace and feeling as they can.  For half an hour this evening I sat charmed with their conversation, and really instructed and elevated by the sentiments they uttered.  I cannot say as much for any other young ladies in the room, for there are none others here above the common run of ordinarily intelligent girls—­none who may not really be classed with common people in the true acceptation of the term.”