deeply by her music."

Over the faces of his three listeners there fell a cloud. Mabel
looked annoyed, Alice sulky, and a flush of the old jealous fury
darkened the brow of the Baroness. But all were smiling deceitfully
when Joy Irving approached.

Her radiant young beauty, and the expressions of admiration with
which Preston Cheney greeted her as a woman and an artist, filled
life with gall and wormwood for the three feminine listeners.

"What! this beautiful young miss, scarcely out of short frocks, is
not the musician who gave us that wonderful harmony of sounds. My
child, how did you learn to play like that in the brief life you have
passed on earth? Surely you must have been taught by the angels
before you came."

A deep blush of pleasure at the words which, though so extravagant,
Joy felt to be sincere, increased her beauty as she looked up into
Preston Cheney's admiring eyes.

And as he held her hands in both of his and gazed down upon her it
seemed to the Baroness she could strike them dead at her feet and
rejoice in the act.

Beside this radiant vision of loveliness and genius, Alice looked
plainer and more meagre than ever before. She was like a wayside
weed beside an American Beauty rose.

"I hope you and Alice will become good friends," Mr Cheney said