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On one of the last days of July, Mary Sutherland was in her father’s house at Windsor, copying a sketch signed A. H. The room had a French window opening on a little pleasure ground and shrubbery, far beyond which, through the swimming summer atmosphere, was the river threading the distant valley. But Mary did not look that way. With her attention concentrated on a stained scrap of paper, she might have passed for an æsthetic daughter of the Man with the Muck Rake. At last a shadow fell upon the drawing board. Then she turned, and saw a tall, handsome lady, a little past middle age, standing at the window.

“Mrs Herbert!” she exclaimed, throwing down her brush, and running to embrace the newcomer. “I thought you were in Scotland.”

“So I was, until last week. The first person I saw in London was your Aunt Jane; and she has persuaded me to stay at Windsor with her for a fortnight How well you are looking! I saw your portrait in Adrian’s studio; and it is not the least bit like you.”

“I hope you did not tell him so. Besides, it must be like me. All Adrian’s artistic friends admire it.”

“Yes; and he admires their works in return. It is a well understood bargain. Poor Adrian! He did not know that I was coming back from Scotland; and I gave him a very disagreeable surprise by walking into his studio on Monday afternoon.”

“Disagreeable! I am sure he was delighted.”

“He did not even pretend to be pleased. His manners are really getting worse and worse. Who is the curious person that opened the shrubbery gate for me? — a sort of Cyclop with a voice of bronze.”

“It is only Mr Jack, Charlie’s tutor. He has nothing to do at present, as Charlie is spending a fortnight at Cambridge.”

“Oh, indeed! Your Aunt Jane has a great deal to say about him. She does not like him; and his appearance rather confirms her, I must say, though he has good eyes. Whose whim was Mr Jack, pray?”

“Mine, they say; though I had no more to do with his being engaged than papa or Charlie had.”

“I am glad Adrian had nothing to do with it. Well, Mary, have you any news for me? Has anything wonderful happened since I went to Scotland?”

“No. At least, I think not. You heard of papa’s aunt Dorcas’s death.”

“That was in April, just before I went away. I heard that you left London early in the season. It is childish to bury yourself down here. You must get married, dear.”

Mary blushed. “Did Adrian tell you of his new plans?” she said.

“Adrian never tells me anything. And indeed I do not care to hear of any plans of his until he has, once for all, given up his absurd notion of becoming a painter. Of course he will not hear of that: he has never forgiven me for suggesting it. All that his fine art has done for him as yet is to make him dislike his mother; and I hope it may never do worse.”

“But, Mrs Herbert, you are mistaken: I assure you you are quite mistaken. He is a little sore, perhaps, because you do not appreciate his genius; but he loves you very dearly.”

“Do not trouble yourself about my not appreciating his genius, as you call it, my dear. I am not one bit prejudiced against art; and if Adrian had the smallest chance of becoming a good painter, I would share my jointure with him and send him abroad to study. But he will never paint. I am not what is called an &ligae;sthete; and pictures that are generally understood to be the perfection of modern art invariably bore me, because I do not understand them. But I do understand Adrian’s daubs; and I know that they are invariably weak and bad. All the Royal Academy could not persuade me to the contrary — though, indeed, they are not likely to try. I wish I could make you understand that anyone who dissuades Adrian from pursuing art will be his best friend. Don’t you feel that yourself when you look at his pictures, Mary?”

“No,” said Mary, fixing her glasses and looking boldly at her visitor, “I feel just the contrary.”

“Then you must be blind or infatuated. Take his portrait of you as an example! No one could recognize it. Even Adrian told me that he would have destroyed it, had you not forbidden him; though he was bursting with suppressed resentment because I did not pretend to admire it.”

“I believe that Adrian will be a great man yet, and that you will acknowledge that you were mistaken in him.”

“Well, my dear, you are young, and not very wise, for all your cleverness. Besides, you did not know Adrian’s father.”

“No; but I know Adrian — very well, I think. I have faith in the entire worthiness of his conceptions; and he has proved that he does not grudge the hard work which is all that is requisite to secure the power of executing what he conceives. You cannot expect him to be a great painter without long practice and study.”

“I do not understand metaphysics, Mary. Conceptions and executions are Greek to me. But I know very well that Adrian will never be happy until he is married to some sensible woman. And married he never can be whilst he remains an artist.”

“Why?”

“What a question! How can he marry with only three hundred a year? He would not accept an allowance from me, even if I could afford to make him one; for since we disagreed about this wretched art, he has withdrawn himself from me in every possible way, and with an ostentation, too, which — natural feeling apart — is in very bad taste. He will never add a penny to his income by painting: of that I am certain; and he has not enterprise enough to marry a woman with money. If he persists in his infatuation, you will find that he will drag out his life waiting for a success that will never come. And he has no social talents. If he were a genius, like Raphael, his crotchets would not matter. If he were a humbug, like his uncle John he would flourish as all humbugs do in this wicked world. But Adrian is neither: he is only a duffer, poor fellow.”

Mary reddened, and said nothing.

“Have you any influence over him?” said Mrs. Herbert, watching her.

“If I had,” replied Mary “I would not use it to discourage him.”

“I am sorry for that. I had some hope that you would help me to save him from wasting his opportunities. Your Aunt Jane has been telling me that you are engaged to him; but that is such an old story now that I never pay any attention to it.”

“Has Adrian not told you?”

“My dear, I have already said a dozen times that Adrian never tells me anything. The more important his affairs are, the more openly and purposely he excludes me from them. I hope you have not been so silly as to rely on his visions of fame for your future support.”

“The truth is that we have been engaged since last April. I wanted Adrian to write to you; but he said he preferred to speak to you about it. I thought he would have done so the moment you returned. However, I am sure he had good reasons for leaving me to tell you; and I am quite content to wait until he reaps the reward of his labor. We must agree to differ about his genius. I have perfect faith in him.”

“Well, Mary, I am very sorry for your sake. I am afraid, if you do not lose patience and desert him in time, you will live to see all your own money spent, and to try bringing up a family on three hundred a year. If you would only be advised, and turn him from his artistic conceit, you would be the best wife in England for him. You have such force of character — just what he wants.”

Mary laughed. “You are so mistaken in everything concerning Adrian!” she said. “It is he who has all the force of character: I am only his pupil. He has imposed all his ideas on me, more, perhaps, by dint of their purity and truth than of his own assertiveness; for he is no dogmatist. I am always the follower: he the leader.”

“All very fine, Mary; but my oldfashioned common sense is better than your clever modern nonsense. However, since Adrian has turned your head, there is nothing for it but to wait until you both come to your senses. That must be your Aunt Jane at the door. She promised to follow me within half an hour.”

Mary frowned, and recovered her serenity with an effort as she rose to greet her aunt, Mrs. Beatty, an elderly lady, with features like Mr. Sutherland’s but fat and imperious. She exclaimed, “I hope I’ve not come too soon, Mary. How surprised you must have been to see Mrs Herbert!”

“Yes. Mr Jack let her into the shrubbery; and she appeared to me at the window without a word of warning.”

“Mr Jack is a nice person to have in a respectable house,” said Mrs. Beatty scornfully. “Do you know where I saw him last?”

“No,” said Mary impatiently; “and I do not want to know. I am tired of Mr Jack’s misdemeanors.”

“Misdemeanors! I call it scandal, Mary. A perfect disgrace!”

“Dear me! What has he done now?’

“You may well ask. He is at present shewing himself in the streets of Windsor in company with common soldiers, openly entering the taverns with them.”

“O Aunt Jane! Are you sure?”

Perhaps you will allow me to believe my senses. I drove through the town on my way here — you know what a small town is, Mrs Herbert, and how everybody knows everybody else by sight in it, let alone such a remarkable looking person as this Mr Jack; and the very first person I saw was Private Charles, the worst character in my husband’s regiment, conversing with my nephew’s tutor at the door of the ‘Green Man.’ They went into the bar together before my eyes. Now, what do you think of your Mr Jack?”

“He may have had some special reason”

“Special reason! Fiddlestick! What right has any servant of my brother’s to speak to a profligate soldier in broad daylight in the streets?* There can be no excuse for it. If Mr Jack, had a particle of selfrespect he would maintain a proper distance between himself and even a full sergeant. But this Charles is such a drunkard that he spends half his time in cells. He would have been dismissed from the regiment long since, only he is a bandsman; and the bandmaster begs Colonel Beatty not to get rid of him, as he cannot be replaced.”

“If he is a bandsman,” said Mary, “that explains it. Mr Jack wanted musical information from him, I suppose.”

“I declare, Mary, it is perfectly wicked to hear you defend such conduct. Is a public house the proper place for learning music? Why could not Mr Jack apply to your uncle? If he had addressed himself properly to me, Colonel Beatty could have ordered the man to give him whatever information was required of him.”

“I must say, aunt, that you are the last person I should expect Mr Jack to ask a favor from, judging by your usual manner towards him.”

“There!” said Mrs Beatty, turning indignantly to Mrs Herbert. “That is the way I am treated in this house to gratify Mr Jack. Last week I was told that I was in the habit of gossiping with servants, because Mrs Williams housemaid met him in the Park on Sunday — on Sunday, mind — whistling and singing and behaving like a madman. And now, when Mary’s favorite is convicted in the very act of carousing with the lowest of the low, she turns it off by saying that I do not know how to behave myself before a tutor.”

“I did not say so, aunt; and you know that very well.”

“Oh, well, of course if you are going to fly out at me—”

“I am not flying at you, aunt; but you are taking offence without the least reason; and you are making Mrs Herbert believe that I am Mr Jack’s special champion — you called him my favorite. The truth is, Mrs Herbert, that nobody likes this Mr Jack; and we only keep him because Charlie makes some progress with him, and respects him. Aunt Jane took a violent dislike to him”

“I, Mary! What is Mr Jack to me that I should like or dislike him, pray?”

“ — and she is always bringing me stories of his misdoings, as if they were my fault. Then, when I try to defend him from obvious injustice, I am accused of encouraging and shielding him.”

“So you do,” said Mrs Beatty.

“I say whatever I can for him,” said Mary sharply, “because I dislike him too much to condescend to join in attacks made on him behind his back. And I am not afraid of him, though you are, and so is Papa.”

“Oh, really you are too ridiculous,” said Mrs Beatty. “Afraid!”

“I see,” said Mrs Herbert smoothly, “that my acquaintance the Cyclop has made himself a bone of contention here. Since you all dislike him, why not dismiss him and get a more popular character in his place? He is really not an ornament to your establishment. Where is your father, Mary?”

“He has gone out to dine at Eton; and he will not be back until midnight. He will be so sorry to have missed you. But he will see you tomorrow, of course.”

“And you are alone here?”

“Yes. Alone with my work.”

“Then what about our plan of taking you back with us and keeping you for the evening’”

“I think I would rather stay and finish my work.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs Beatty. “You cannot be working always. Come out and enjoy yourself.”

Mary yielded with a sigh, and went for her hat.

“I am sure that all this painting and poetry reading is not good for a young girl,” said Mrs Beatty, whilst Mary was away. “It is very good of your Adrian to take such trouble to cultivate Mary’s mind; but so much study cannot but hurt her brain. She is very self-willed and full of outlandish ideas. She is not under proper control. Poor Charles has no more resolution than a baby. And she will not listen to me, alth—”

“I am ready,” said Mary, returning.

“You make me nervous — you do everything so quickly,” said Mrs. Beatty, querulously. “I wish you would take shorter steps,” she added, looking disparagingly at her niece’s skirts as they went out through the shrubbery. “It is not nice to see a girl striding like a man. It gives you quite a bold appearance when you swing along, peering at people through your glasses.”

“That is an old crime of mine, Mrs Herbert,” said Mary. “I never go out with Aunt Jane without being lectured for not walking as if I had high heeled boots. Even the Colonel took me too task one evening here. He said a man should walk like a horse, and a woman like a cow. His complaint was that I walked like a horse; and he said that you, aunt, walked properly, like a cow. It is not worth any woman’s while to gain such a compliment as that. It made Mr Jack laugh for the first and only time in our house.”

Mrs Beatty reddened, and seemed about to make an angry reply, when the tutor came in at the shrubbery gate, and held it open for them to pass. Mrs Herbert thanked him. Mrs Beatty, following her, tried to look haughtily at him, but quailed, and made him a slight bow, in response to which he took off his hat.

“Mr Jack,” said Mary, stopping: “if papa comes back before I am in, will you please tell him that I am at Colonel Beatty’s.”

“At what hour do you expect him?”

“Not until eleven, at soonest. I am almost sure to be back first; but if by any chance I should not be—”

“I will tell him,” said Jack. Mary passed on; and he watched them until Mrs Beatty’s carriage disappeared. Then he hurried indoors, and brought a heap of manuscript music into the room the ladies had just left. He opened the pianoforte and sat down before it; but instead of playing he began to write, occasionally touching the keys to try the effect of a progression, or rising to walk up and down the room with puckered brows.

He labored in this fashion until seven o’clock, when, hearing someone whistling in the road, he went out into the shrubbery, and presently came back with a soldier, not perfectly sober, who carried a roll of music paper and a case containing three clarionets.

“Now let us hear what you can make of it,” said Jack, seating himself at the piano.

“It’s cruel quick, that allagrow part is,” said the soldier, trying to make his sheet of music stand properly on Mary’s table easel. “Just give us your B fat, will you. Mister.” Jack struck the note; and the soldier blew. ‘“Them ladies’ singin’ pianos is always so damn low,” he grumbled. “I’ve drorn the slide as far as it’ll come. Just wait while I stick a washer in the bloomin’ thing.”

“It seems to me that you have been drinking instead of practising, since I saw you,” said Jack.

“S’ help me, governor, I’ve been practising all the afternoon. I only took a glass on my way here to set me to rights. Now, Mister, I’m ready.” Jack immediately attacked Mary’s piano with all the vigor of an orchestra; and the clarinet soon after made its entry with a brilliant cadenza. The soldier was a rapid expectant; his tone was fine; and the only varieties of expression he was capable of, the spirited and the pathetic, satisfied even Jack, who, on other points, soon began to worry the soldier by his fastidiousness.

“Stop,” he cried, “That is not the effect I want at all. It is not bright enough. Take the other clarinet. Try it in C.”

“Wot! Play all them flats on a clarinet in C! It can’t be done. Least ways I’m damned if I can — Hello! ‘Eire’s a gent for you, sir.”

Jack turned. Adrian Herbert was standing on the threshold, astonished, holding the handle of the open door. “I have been listening outside for some time,” he said politely. “I hope I do not disturb you.”

“No,” replied Jack. “Friend Charles here is worth listening to. Eh, Mr Herbert?”

Private Charles looked down modestly; jingled his spurs; coughed; and spat through the open window. Adrian did not appreciate his tone or his execution; but he did appreciate his sodden features, his weak and husky voice, and his barrack accent. Seeing a clarinet and a red handkerchief lying on a satin cushion which he had purchased for Mary at a bazaar, the looked at the soldier with disgust, and at Jack with growing indignation.

“I presume there is no one at home,” he said coldly.

“Miss Sutherland is at Mrs Beatty’s, and will not return until eleven,” said Jack, looking at Adrian with his most rugged expression, and not subduing his powerful voice, the sound of which always afflicted the artist with a sensation of insignificance. “Mrs Beatty and a lady who is visiting her called and brought her out with them. Mr Sutherland is at Eton, and will not be back till midnight. My pupil is still at Cambridge.”

“H’m” said Adrian. “I shall go on to Mrs Beatty’s. I should probably disturb you by remaining.”

Jack nodded and turned to the piano without further ceremony. Private Charles had taken one of Mary’s paint-brushes and fixed it upon the desk against his sheet of music, which was rolling itself up. This was the last thing Herbert saw before he left. As he walked away he heard the clarinet begin the slow movement of the concerto, a melody which, in spite of his annoyance, struck him as quite heavenly. He nevertheless hastened out of earshot, despising the whole art of music because a half-drunken soldier could so affect him by it.

Half a mile from the Sutherlands’ house was a gate, though which he passed into a flower-garden, in which a tall gentleman with sandy hair was smoking a cigar. This was Colonel Beatty, from whom he learnt that the ladies were in the drawing room. There he found his mother and Mrs Beatty working in colored wools, whilst Mary, at a distance from them, was reading a volume of Browning. She gave a sigh of relief as he entered.

“Is this your usual hour for making calls?” said Mrs Herbert, in response to her son’s cool “Good evening, mother.”

“Yes,” said he. “I cannot work at night.” He passed on and sat down beside Mary at the other end of the room. Mrs Beatty smiled significantly at Mrs Herbert, who shrugged her shoulders and went on with her work

“What is the matter, Adrian?” said Mary, in a low voice.

“Why?”

“You look annoyed.”

“I am not annoyed. But I am not quite satisfied with the way in which your household is managed in your absence by Mr Jack.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Mary, “you too! Am I never to hear the last of Mr Jack? It is bad enough to have to meet him every day, without having his misdeeds dinned into my ears from morning till night.”

“I think an end should be put to such a state of things, Mary. I have often reproached myself for having allowed you to engage this man with so little consideration. I thought his mere presence in the house could not affect you — that his business would be with Charlie only. My experience of the injury that can be done by the mere silent contact of coarse natures with fine ones should have taught me better. Mr Jack is not fit to live with you, Mary.”

“But perhaps it is our fault. He has no idea of the region of thought from which I wish I never had to descend; but, after all, we have no fault to find with him. We cannot send him away because he does not appreciate pictures.”

“No. But I have reason to believe that he is not quite so well-behaved in your absence as he is when you are at home. When I arrived tonight, for instance, I, of course, went straight to your house. There I heard a musical entertainment going forward. When I went in I was greeted with a volley of oaths which a drunken soldier was addressing to Jack. The two were in the drawingroom and did not perceive me at first, Jack being seated at your pianoforte, accompanying the soldier, who was playing a flageolet. The fellow was using your table easel for a desk, and your palette knife as a paper weight to keep his music flat. Has Jack your permission to introduce his military friends whenever you are out?”

“Certainly not,” said Mary, reddening. “I never heard of such a thing. I think Mr Jack is excessively impertinent.”

“What is the matter?” said Mrs. Beattv, perceiving that her niece was vexed.

“Nothing, aunt,” said Mary hastily. “Please do not tell Aunt Jane,” she added in an undertone to Adrian.

“Why not’”

“Oh, she will only worry about it. Pray do not mention it. What ought we to do about it, Adrian?”

“Simply dismiss Mr Jack forthwith?”

“But — Yes, I suppose we should. The only difficulty is—” Mary hesitated, and at last added, “I am afraid he will think that it is out of revenge for his telling Charlie not to take his ideas of music from my way of playing it, and because he despises my painting.”

“Despises your painting! Do you mean to say that he has been insolent to you? You should dismiss him at once. Surely such fears as you expressed just now have no weight with you, Mary?”

Mary reddened again, and said, a little angrily, “It is very easy for you to talk of dismissing people, Adrian; but if you had to do it yourself, you would feel how unpleasant it is.”

Adrian looked grave and did not reply. After a short silence Mary rose; crossed the room carelessly; and began to play the piano. Herbert, instead of sitting by her and listening, as his habit was, went out and joined the Colonel in the garden.

“What have you quarreled about, dear?” said Mrs Herbert.

“We have not quarreled,” said Mary. “What made you think that.”

“Adrian is offended.”

“Oh, no. At least I cannot imagine why he should be.”

“He is. I know what Adrian’s slightest shrug signifies.”

Mary shook her head and went on playing. Adrian did not return until they went into another room to sup. Then Mary said she must go home; and Herbert rose to accompany her.”

“Goodnight, mother,” he said. “I shall see you tomorrow. I have a bed in the town, and will go there directly when I have left Mary safely at home.” He nodded; shook hands with Mrs Beatty and the Colonel; and went out with Mary. They walked a hundred yards in silence. Then Mary said:

“Are you offended, Adrian? Mrs Herbert said you were.”

He started as if he had been stung. “I do not believe I could make a movement,” he replied indignantly, “for which my mother would not find some unworthy motive. She never loses an opportunity to disparage me and to make mischief.”

“She does not mean it, Adrian. It is only that she does not quite understand you. You sometimes say hard things of her, although I know you do not mean to speak unkindly.”

“Pardon me, Mary, I do. I hate hypocrisy of all kinds; and you annoy me when you assume any tenderness on my part towards my mother. I dislike her. I believe I should do so even it she had treated me well, and shewed me the ordinary respect which I have much right to from a parent as from any other person. Our natures are antagonistic, our views of life and duty incompatible: we have nothing in common. That is the plain truth; and however much it may shock you, unless you are willing to accept it as unalterable, I had rather you would drop the subject.”

“Oh, Adrian, I do not think it is right to—”

“I do not think, Mary, that you can tell me anything concerning what is called filial duty that I am not already familiar with. I cannot help my likes and dislikes: I have to entertain them when they come to me, without regard to their propriety. You may be quite tranquil as far as my mother’s feelings are concerned. My undutiful sentiments afford her her chief delight a pretext for complaining of me.”

Mary looked wistfully at him, and walked on, down-east. He stopped; turned towards her gravely; and resumed: “Mary: I suspect from one or two things you have said, that you cherish a project for reconciling me to my mother. You must relinquish that idea. I myself exhausted every effort to that end long ago. I disguised the real nature of my feeling towards her until even self-deception, the most persistent of all forms of illusion, was no longer possible. In those days should have hailed your good offices with pleasure. Now I have not the least desire to be reconciled to her. As I have said, we have nothing in common: her affection would be a burden to me. Therefore think no more of it. Whenever you wish to see me in my least amiable mood, re-open the subject, and you will be gratified.”

“I shall avoid it since you wish me to. I only wished to say that you left me in an awkward position today by not telling her of our engagement.”

“True. That was inconsiderate of me. I intended to tell her; but I got no opportunity. It matters little; she would only have called me a fool. Did you tell her?”

“Yes, when I found that Aunt Jane had told her already.”

“And what did she say?”

‘Oh, nothing. She reminded me that you were not rich enough to marry.”

“And proclaimed her belief that I should never become so unless I gave up painting?”

“She was quite kind to me about it. But she is a little prejudiced—”

“Yes, I know. For heaven’s sake let us think and talk about something else. Look at the stars. What a splendid dome they make of the sky now that there is no moon to distract attention from them. And yet a great artist, with a miserable yard of canvas, can move us as much as that vast expanse of air and fire.”

“Yes. — I am very uncomfortable about Mr Jack, Adrian. If he is to be sent away, it must be done before Charlie returns, or else there will be a quarrel about it. But then, who is to speak to him? He is a very hard person to find fault with; and very likely papa will make excuses for him sooner than face him with a dismissal. Or, worse again, he might give him some false reason for sending him away, in order to avoid an explosion; and somehow I would rather do anything than condescend to tell Mr Jack a story. If he were anyone else I should not mind so much.”

“There is no occasion to resort to untruth, which is equally odious, no matter to whom it is addressed. It was agreed that his employment should be terminable by a month’s notice on either side. Let Mr. Sutherland write him a letter giving that notice. No reason need be mentioned; and the letter can be courteously worded, thanking him for his past services, and simply saying that Charlie is to be placed in other hands.”

“But it will be so unpleasant to have him with us for a month under a sentence of dismissal.”

“Well, it cannot be helped. There is no alternative but to turn him out of the house for misconduct.”

“That is impossible. A letter will be the best. I wish we had never Been him, or that he were gone already. Hush. Listen a moment.”

They stopped. The sound of a pianoforte came to their ears.

“He is playing still,” said Mary. “Let us go back for Colonel Beatty. He will know how to deal with the soldier.”

“The soldier must have left long ago,” said Adrian. “I can hear nothing but the piano. Let us go in. He is within his bargain as far as his own playing goes. He stipulated for that when we engaged him.”

They went on. As they neared the house, grotesque noises mingled with the notes of the pianoforte. Mary hesitated, and would have stopped again ; but Adrian, with a stern face, walked quickly ahead. Mary had a key of the shrubbery; and they went round that way, the noise becoming deafening as they approached. The player was not only pounding the keyboard so that the window rattled in its frame, but was making an extraordinary variety of sounds with his own larynx. Mary caught Adrian’s arm as they advanced to the window and looked in. Jack was alone, seated at the pianoforte, his brows knitted, his eyes glistening under them, his wrists bounding and rebounding upon the keys, his rugged countenance transfigured by an expression of extreme energy and exaltation. He was playing from a manuscript score, and was making up for the absence of an orchestra by imitations of the instruments. He was grunting and buzzing the bassoon parts, humming when the violoncello had the melody, whistling for the flutes, singing hoarsely for the horns, barking for the trumpets, squealing for the oboes, making indescribable sounds in imitation of clarionets and drums, and marking each sforzando by a toss of his head and a gnash of his teeth. At last, abandoning this eccentric orchestration, he chanted with the full strength of his formidable voice until he came to the final chord, which he struck violently, and repeated in every possible inversion from one end of the keyboard to the other. Then he sprang up, and strode excitedly to and fro in the room. At the second turn he saw Herbert and Mary, who had just entered, staring at him. He started, and stared back at them, quite disconcerted.

“I fear I have had the misfortune to disturb you a second time,” said Herbert, with suppressed anger.

“No,” said Jack, in a voice strained by his recent abuse of it, “I was playing by myself. The soldier whom you saw here has gone to his quarters.” As he mentioned the soldier, he looked at Mary.

“It was hardly necessary to mention that you were playing,” said Adriaa. “We heard you at a considerable distance.”

Jack’s cheek glowed like a sooty copper kettle, and he looked darkly at Herbert for a moment. Then, with some humor in his eye, he said, “Did you hear much of my performance?”

“We heard quite enough, Mr. Jack.” said Mary, approaching the piano to place her hat on it. Jack quickly took his manuscript away as she did so. “I am afraid you have not improved my poor spinet,” she added, looking ruefully at the keys.

“That is what a pianoforte is for,” said Jack gravely. “It may have suffered; but when next you touch it you will feel that the hands of a musician have been on it, and that its heart has beaten at last.” He looked hard at her for a moment after saying this, and then turned to Herbert, and continued, “Miss Sutherland was complaining some time ago that she had never heard me play. Neither had she, because she usually sits here when she is at home; and I do not care to disturb her then. I am glad she has been gratified at last by a performance which is, I assure you, very characteristic of me. Perhaps you thought it rather odd”’

“I did think so,” said Herbert, severely.

“Then,” said Jack, with a perceptible surge of his subsiding excitement, “I am fortunate in having escaped all observation except that of a gentleman who understands so well what an artist is. If I cannot compose as you paint, believe that it is because the art which I profess lies nearer to a strong man’s soul than one which nature has endowed you with the power of appreciating. Goodnight.” He looked for a moment at the two; turned on his heel; and left the room. They stared after him in silence, and heard him laugh subduedly as he ascended the stairs.

“I will make papa write to him tomorrow,” said Mary, when she recovered herself. “No one shall have a second chance of addressing a sarcasm to you, Adrian, in my father’s house, whilst I am mistress of it.”

“Do not let that influence you, Mary. I am not disposed to complain of the man’s conceited ignorance. But he was impertinent to you.”

“I do not mind that.”

“But I do. Nothing could be more grossly insolent than what he said about your piano. Many of his former remarks have passed with us as the effect of a natural brusquerie, which he could not help. I believe now that he is simply ill-mannered and ill-conditioned. That sort of thing is not to be tolerated for one moment.”

“I have always tried to put the best construction on his actions, and to defend him from Aunt Jane,” said Mary. “I am very sorry now that I did so. The idea of his calling himself an artist!”

“Musicians often arrogate that title to themselves,” said Herbert; “and he does not seem overburdened with modesty. I think I hear Mr Sutherland letting himself in at the hall door. If so, I need not stay any longer, unless you wish me to speak to him about what has occurred.

“Oh no, not tonight: it would only spoil his rest. I will tell him in the morning.”

Herbert waited only to bid Mr. Sutherland good night Then he kissed his betrothed, and went to his lodging.