"Possibly. I was speaking in a general way--meant humanity at large, rather than my own individual self."

"Would you care if I could see all the thoughts and secrets of your soul just at this moment, Mr. Winthrop?" I said, taking a step nearer, and looking intently into his eyes, which returned my look with one equally penetrating.

"No, Medoline. You, least of any one I know," he said, quietly. I looked at him with surprise--perhaps a trifle grieved.

"Does that offend you?" he asked after a pause.

"It wounds me; for I am your friend."

"I am glad of that, little one."

"Glad that you have given me pain?" I asked, with an odd feeling as if I wanted to burst into a fit of childish weeping.

He left his chair and came to my side.

"Why do you look so sorrowful, Medoline? I meant that it gave me pleasure that you were my friend. I did not think that you cared for me."

"I am surprised at myself for caring so much for you when you are so hard on me. I suppose it is because you are my guardian, and I have no one else, scarcely, to love." I was beginning to think I must either escape hastily to my room, or apply the bit of cobweb lace once more to my eyes, which, if I could judge from my feelings, would soon be saturated with my tears.

"I did not think I was hard on you," he said, gently. "I have been afraid lest I was humoring your whims too much; but unselfishness, and thought for the poor, have been such rare traits in the characteristics of my friends, I have not had a heart hard enough to interfere with your instincts."

Here was an entirely new revelation to me; I bethought me of Mrs.

Flaxman's remark a short time before, and repeated it to him.

"I do not think I shall ever have paternal feelings towards you, Medoline, I am not old enough for that. Tell Mrs. Flaxman, if she speaks that way again, I am not anxious for her to fasten in your heart filial affection for me."

"But we may be just as much to each other as if you were my own father?"

I pleaded.

"Quite as much," he said, with emphasis. I forgot my tears; for some way my heart had got so strangely light and glad, tears seemed an unnecessary inc.u.mbrance; and even the thought that had been awaked by the disturbing harmonies of Beethoven's majestic conceptions were folded peacefully away in their still depths again.

CHAPTER XIII.

ALONE WITH HIS DEAD.

At breakfast Mr. Winthrop was more insistent in his curiosity about the concert of the previous evening. Mrs. Flaxman a.s.sured him that we were all agreeably disappointed in our evening's entertainment.

"Mr. Bovyer was especially charmed with Medoline's appreciation of his favorite composer. He asked permission to call on her to-day."

He gave me a keen glance, saying: "I hope you did not grow too enthusiastic. One need not hang out a placard to prove we can comprehend the intricate and profound."

Mrs. Flaxman answered hastily for me.

"No, indeed; she was too quiet; and only Mr. Bovyer and myself detected the tears dropping behind her fan. But Mr. Bovyer seemed gratified at the meaning he read from them."

My face was burning; but after a few seconds' silence I stole a glance at Mr. Winthrop. He was apparently absorbed in his breakfast, and Beethoven's Symphonies were not mentioned in his presence until evening, when Mr. Bovyer, true to his appointment, sat chatting for two or three hours with Mr. Winthrop and his other guests. As usual, I sat a silent listener, comprehending readily a good many things that were said; but some of the conversation took me quite beyond my depth. I found Mr.

Bovyer could grow eloquent over his favorite topics, which, from his phlegmatic appearance, surprised me. He seemed thoroughly acquainted with other subjects than music, and I noticed that even Mr. Winthrop listened to his remarks with deference. Before the evening closed Mr.

Winthrop asked him for some music. He complied so readily that I fell to contrasting his unaffected manner with that of lady musicians who, as a rule, take so much coaxing to gratify their friends' desire for music, and their own vanity at the same time. I noticed Mr. Winthrop settling back into his favorite position in his arm-chair--his head thrown back and eyes closed. Mrs. Flaxman took up her fan and held it as if shielding her eyes from the light. I discovered afterward it was merely a pretext to conceal the emotion Mr. Bovyer usually awakened when she listened to his music.

His first touch on the piano arrested me, and I turned around to watch his face. I recognized the air--the opening pa.s.sage from Haydn's Creation. I was soon spellbound, as were all the rest. Mrs. Flaxman laid down her fan; there were no melting pa.s.sages to bring tears in this symphony, descriptive of primeval darkness, and confusion of the elements, the evil spirits hurrying away from the glad, new light into their native regions of eternal night--the thunder and storm and elemental terrors. Presently I turned to Mr. Winthrop. He was sitting erect in his chair, his eyes no longer closed in languorous enjoyment; when suddenly the measure changed to that delicious pa.s.sage descriptive of the creation of birds. Mr. Bovyer's voice was a trifle too deep and powerful for the air, but it was sympathetic and rarely musical.

He ended as abruptly as he began and glided off into one of those old English glees,--"Hail, Smiling Morn."

Presently turning around he asked: "Are you tired?"

"We have failed to take note of the flight of time; pray go on," Mr.

Winthrop urged.

"What do you say, Miss Selwyn?"

"I would like if you could make Mr. Winthrop cry. If you tried very hard, you might touch his fountain of tears."

"Bravo! I will try," he exclaimed amid the general laugh. He touched the keys, and then pausing a moment, left the instrument.

"I am not in the mood to-night for such a difficult task. I may make the attempt some stormy winter's night at Oaklands. I believe I have a standing invitation there," he said, joining us around the fire.

Mr. Winthrop threw me an amazed look, but instantly recovering himself he said heartily:--"The invitation holds good during the term of our natural lives. The sooner it is accepted the more delighted we shall be."

Mr. Bovyer bowed his thanks, and coming to my side asked if I would care to attend another concert the following evening.

"It depends on what the music is to be. I am not so sensitive as Mr.

Winthrop to a few false notes now and then. The composer has more power to give me pain than the performers, I believe."

"I should say, then, that your comprehension of music was more subtle than his."

"I do not pretend to compare myself with Mr. Winthrop in any way. It would be like the minnow claiming fellowship with the leviathan."

Mr. Winthrop suggested very politely:--

"Humility is becoming until it grows abject."

"Your guardian is an incorrigible bachelor. Ladies do not get the slightest mercy from him," Mr. Bovyer remarked.

"I have ceased to look for any," I said, with an evenness of voice that surprised me.

"I am glad to find myself in such good company," Mr. Winthrop said, with a graceful bend of the head, which included each of his guests in the list of single blessed ones.

"Are you all going to be old bachelors?" I asked, forgetting myself in the surprise of the moment.

"I am not aware that we are all irrevocably committed to that terrible fate," Mr. Bovyer said, as he united in the general smile at my expense.

"It might be more terrible for some of your wives than if you remained single. I think some persons are fore-ordained to live single." I looked steadily in the fire lest my eyes might betray too much.

"Do you imagine those blighted lives are confined solely to one s.e.x?" Mr.