by every one but Aunt Hannah, was found to
be a most entertaining guest.

After dinner somebody suggested music.

Cyril frowned, and got up abruptly. Still
frowning, he turned to a bookcase near him and
began to take down and examine some of the
books.

Bertram twinkled and glanced at Billy.

``Which is it, Cyril?'' he called with cheerful
impertinence; ``stool, piano, or audience that is
the matter to-night?''

Only a shrug from Cyril answered.

``You see,'' explained Bertram, jauntily, to
Arkwright, whose eyes were slightly puzzled,
``Cyril never plays unless the piano and the pedals
and the weather and your ears and my watch
and his fingers are just right!''

``Nonsense!'' scorned Cyril, dropping his book
and walking back to his chair. ``I don't feel
like playing to-night; that's all.''

``You see,'' nodded Bertram again.