sound of voices, high and low, with drifting
strains of violin-bows laid across strings and quickly withdrawn.

The old man looked at her inquiringly. "They hain't begun?"

She shook her head. "They're tuning up."

His face lifted a little. "I reckoned that couldn't be the beginnin'.
But ye can't al'ays tell. They make queer noises sometimes."

"Yes.--I must leave you now." She had ushered him into a small hall.
"I'm going to have you sit here, quite near the platform, where I can
see you." She looked at him a little anxiously. "You don't need to stay
if you don't like it, you know."

"Oh, I shall like it fust-rate," he responded. "It looks like a real
comf'tabul chair to set in."

He seated himself in it and beamed upon the room. The place she had
selected for him was near the platform and facing a little toward the
audience. It had occurred to her, in a last moment of indecision, that
Uncle William might enjoy the audience if the music proved too classic
for him. She left him with a little murmur of apology.

A young girl in pink chiffon, with a bunch of huge pink roses, fluttered
forward with a program.

Uncle William took it in pleased fingers. He searched for his spectacles
and mounted them on his nose, staring at the printed lines. The audience
had settled down to attention. Amused glances traveled toward the big
figure absorbed in its program. Sergia had whispered a word here and
there as she left the room. It made its way back through the crowd--"A
friend of Mademoiselle Lvova's--a sea-captain. She has brought him to
hear the MacDowell pieces." The audience smiled and relaxed. The music
was beginning. Two young girls played a concerto from Rubenstein, with
scared, flying fingers. They were relieved when it was done, and
the audience clapped long and loud. Some one brought them bunches of
flowers--twin lilies, tied exactly alike, with long white ribbons. Uncle
William, his spectacles pushed up on the tufts of hair, watched with
admiring glance as they escaped from the stage. He turned to his
right-hand neighbor, an old gentleman with white hair and big, smooth,
soft hands, who had watched the performance with gentle care.

"Putty girls," said Uncle William, cordially.

The man looked at him, smiling. "One of them is my granddaughter, sir,"
he responded affably.

She came from the door by the platform and sat down near her
grandfather, the lilies and the long white ribbons trailing from
nervous finge