Christian was happy--happy as a lark in the air, just to hear--and make--
the sound of her own singing. Her face brightened; her figure, as she
stood leaning against the mantel-piece assumed a new grace and
dignity. She was beautiful--absolutely beautiful and her husband saw
it.

Was it fancy if, glancing at her, Dr. Grey half sighed? Only for a
moment; then he said cheerily:

"Arthur was right. Children, tell your mother that she is the best singer
we ever heard in all our lives."

"That she is. She sings just like a bird in a tree. And, then, you see,
papa, she is our own bird."

Christian came down from the clouds at once, and laughed heartily at
the idea of being Arthur's own bird.

"Titia," said Dr. Grey, with sudden energy, as if the thought had been
brewing in his mind for many minutes, "is there not a piano in the
drawing-room? There used to be."

"Yes, and I practice upon it two hours every day," answered Letitia,
with dignity. "But afterward Aunt Henrietta locks it up and takes the
key. She says it is poor mamma's piano, and nobody is to play upon it
but me."

As the child said this in a tone so like Aunt Henrietta's, her father
looked--as Christian had only seen him look once or twice before, and