strains of music were heard with great distinctness in the upper hall.

'Ugh!' Arthur said, with a shiver, as he stopped a moment to listen,
while his quick eye took in every detail of the furniture and its
arrangement in the hall. 'That violinist ought to be hung--the pianist,
too! Don't they know what horrid discord they are making? It brings that
heat back. I believe, upon my soul, I shall have to bathe my face
again.'

Suiting the action to the word, he went back and washed his face for the
third time; then returning to the hall, he advanced toward Harold, who
was now wide awake and stood up to meet him. As Arthur met the
clear-brown eyes fixed so curiously upon him, he stopped suddenly, and
put his hand to his head as if trying to recall something; then going a
step or two nearer to Harold, he said:

'Well, my little boy, what are you doing up here?'

'Telling the folks which way to go,' was Harold's answer.

'Who are you?' Arthur continued. 'What is your name?'

'Harold Hastings,' was the reply; and instantly there came over the
white, thin face, and into the large, bright eyes, an expression which
made the boy stand back a little as the tall man came up to him and,
laying a hand on his shoulder, said, excitedly:

'Harold Hastings! He was once my friend, or, I thought he was; but I
hate him now. And he was your father, and Amy Crawford was your mother?
_N'est ce pas?_ Answer me!'