in a big wicker chair, smoking, his eyes half closed, his bandaged
foot stretched out on a little stool.

And her poignant feeling of sympathy for him, sitting there thus,
and her rapturous delight in the sun-touched colours of the
embroideries, and the hushed peace of the hot Sabbath morning, all
seemed to intermingle and pierce to her very soul. She was glad to
play the piano. When deeply moved she loved to play, to pour out her
feelings in dreamy melodies and deep vibrant harmonies with queer
minor cadences thrown in--the kind of music you can play "with
expression," while you vision mysterious, poetic pictures.

After a moment's reflection, she decided on "The Angel's Serenade";
she knew it by heart, and adored playing it. There was something
brightly-sweet and brightly-sad in those strains of loveliness; she
could almost hear the soft flutter of angelic wings, almost see the
silvery sheen of them astir. And, oddly, all that sheen and stir,
all that sadly-sweet sound, seemed to come from within herself--just
as if her own soul were singing, instead of the piano keyboard.

And with Missy, to play "The Angel's Serenade" was to crave playing
more such divine pieces; she drifted on into "Traumerei"; "Simple
Confession"; "One Sweetly Solemn Thought," with variations. She
played them all with extra "expression," putting all her loving
sympathy for Uncle Charlie into her finger-tips. And he must have
been soothed by it, for he dozed off, and came to with a start when
she finally paused, to tell her how beautifully she played.

Then began a delicious time of talking together. Uncle Charlie was
like grandpa--the kind of man you enjoyed talking with, about deep,