seats, and leaping firelight. A grand-piano, piled with music,
dominated the whole. The girl seated herself before it and began to
play, with the beautiful, powerful touch of control. After the first
bars, the Doctor's head sank back upon the cushions of the chair and
the Doctor's hand stole mechanically to the matches. He smoked and she
played--quiet, large music, tranquilly filling the room: Bach fugues,
German Lieder, fragments of weird northern harmonies, fragments of
Beethoven and Schubert, the Largo of Handel,--and all the time she
played she looked at the man who lay back in the chair, half turned
from her, the cigar drooping from his fingers. There was no sound in
the room but the music and light leaping of little flames in the
fireplace,--no motion but theirs and the pulsing fingers on the keys.
The girl played on and on, till the fire began to die, and with a
sudden sigh the Doctor held up his hand. Then she rose at once, and
going forward, stood as simply at the side of the fireplace opposite
him. She was not beautiful, but, oh, she was beautiful with health and
calm vigor.

The Doctor let his eyes rest on her.

"If you knew," he said, with a little, half-apologetic laugh.

In her turn she held up one of her long hands.

"But I do;--you forget I was there all the morning. And you pulled him
through. As for the rest--" She stooped suddenly and began to pile
together the logs; the Doctor watched her, noting with a trained and
sensitive eye the muscular ease and grace of the supple arms and
shoulders--like music. "Of course"--she spoke lightly--"they will kill
you some day, among them; but--it's worth while, isn't it?--and there