heart in her day. Only Sallie Horn, who had all the
dear woman's secrets, knew where those little feet
had stepped and what hopes they had crushed. Only
Sallie Horn, too, knew why the delicate finger was
still bare of a plain gold ring. The world never
thought it had made any difference to Miss Lavinia,
but then the world had never peeped under the lower
lid of Miss Clendenning's heart.

Suddenly the hushed quiet of the room was broken
by a loud knock at the front door, or rather by a
series of knocks, so quick and sharp that Malachi
started from his pantry on the run.

"That must be Max," said Richard. "Now, Lavinia,
we will move the piano, so as to give you more
room."

Mrs. Horn pushed back her chair, rose to her feet,
and stood waiting to receive the noted 'cellist, without
whom not a note could be sounded, and Miss
Clendenning took her foot from the fender and
dropped her skirts.

But it was not Max!

Not wheezy, perspiring old Max Unger after all,
walking into the room mopping his face with one
hand and with the other lugging his big 'cello, embalmed
in a green baize bag--he would never let