“I profit by your confession that they do sometimes play by themselves,” said Mr. Talboys.  “Be merciful, and let us hear you by yourself."’ Eve turned as red as fire.

David backed the request sincerely.

Lucy played a piece composed expressly for the piano by a pianist of the day.  David sat on her left hand and watched intently how she did it.

When it was over, Talboys did a bit of rapture; Eve another.

“That is playing.”

“I would not have believed it if I had not seen it done,” said David.  “Eve, you should have seen her beautiful fingers thread in and out among the keys; it was like white fire dancing; and as for her hand, it is not troubled with joints like ours, I should say.”

“The music, Mr. Dodd,” said Lucy, severely.

“Oh, the music!  Well, I could hardly take on me to say.  You see I heard it by the eye, and that was all in its favor; but I should say the music wasn’t worth a button.”

“David!”

“How you run off with one’s words, Eve!  I mean, played by anybody but her.  Why, what was it, when you come to think?  Up and down the gamut, and then down and up.  No more sense in it than a b c—­a scramble to the main-masthead for nothing, and back to no good.  I’d as lief see you play on the table, Miss Fountain.”

“Poor Moscheles!” said Lucy, dryly.

“Revenge is in your power,” said Talboys; “play no more; punish us all for this one heretic.”

Lucy reflected a moment; she then took from the canterbury a thick old book.  “This was my mother’s.  Her taste was pure in music, as in everything.  I shall be sorry if you do not all like this,” added she, softly.

It was an old mass; full, magnificent chords in long succession, strung together on a clear but delicate melody.  She played it to perfection:  her lovely hands seemed to grasp the chords.  No fumbling in the base; no gelatinizing in the treble.  Her touch, firm and masterly, yet feminine, evoked the soul of her instrument, as David had of his, and she thought of her mother as she played.  These were those golden strains from which all mortal dross seems purged.  Hearing them so played, you could not realize that he who writ them had ever eaten, drunk, smoked, snuffed, and hated the composer next door.  She who played them felt their majesty and purity.  She lifted her beaming eye to heaven as she played, and the color receded from her cheek; and when her enchantment ended she was silent, and all were silent, and their ears ached for the departed charm.

Then she looked round a mute inquiry.

Talboys applauded loudly.

But the tear stood in David’s eye, and he said nothing.

“Well, David,” said Eve, reproachfully, “I’m sure if that does not please you—­”

“Please me,” cried David, a little fretfully; “more shame for me if it does not.  Please is not the word.  It is angel music, I call it—­ah!”