smiling--even the second violin. His children always smiled when Mr.
Roderick Birch came in. It would have been a sour temper which could
have resisted his genial greeting.

"Mother would like the _'Lullaby'_ next," he said. "She's rather tired
to-night. And after the _'Lullaby'_ I want a little talk with you all."

Something in his voice or his eyes made his elder daughter take notice
of him, as he dropped into a chair by the fire. "Play your best," she
warned the others, in a whisper. But they needed no warning. Everybody
always played his best for father. And if mother was tired--

The notes of the second violin fell daintily, caressing those which
wrought out the melody enveloping but never overwhelming them. As the
music ceased, the leader, turning to the second violin, met her
reluctant eyes with a softening in his own keen ones. The hint of a
laugh curved the corners of her lips as his smiled broadly. It was all
the truce necessary. Charlotte's sulks never lasted longer than Lanse's
impatience.

They laid aside their instruments and gathered round their father.
Graceful, brown-eyed Celia sat down beside him; Charlotte's curly black
hair mingled with his heavy iron-gray locks as she perched upon the arm
of his chair, her scarlet flannel arm under his head. The youngest boy,
Justin, threw himself flat on the hearth-rug, chin propped on elbow,
watching the fire; sixteen-year-old Jeff helped himself to a low stool,
clasping long arms about long legs as his knees approached his head in
this posture; and the eldest son, pausing, drew up a chair and sat down
to face the group.