tent interest. Thus, as
Constance began the last line the earnest, compelling regard of the
brown eyes caused her own to be turned toward Marjorie.

"Oh!" she ejaculated in faltering surprise. "Where--where did you come
from? What made you come here?"

There was mingled amazement, consternation and embarrassment in the
question. The white-haired pianist swung round on his stool, and the old
man with the violin raised his head and regarded the unexpected visitor
out of two mildly inquiring blue eyes.

"I'm sorry," began Marjorie, her cheeks hot with the shame of being
unwelcome. "I suppose I ought not to have come, but----"

Constance sprang to her side and catching her hands said contritely,
"Forgive me, dear, and please don't feel hurt. I--you see--I never
invite anyone here--because--well, just because we are so poor. I
thought you wouldn't care to come and so----"

"I've always wanted to come," interrupted Marjorie, eagerly. "I don't
think you are poor. I think you are rich to have this wonderful music. I
never dreamed you could sing, Constance. What made you keep it a
secret?"

"No one ever liked me well enough to care to know it until you came,"
returned Constance simply. "I meant to tell you, but I kept on putting
it off."

While the conversation went on between the two girls the one old man was
going over a pile of ragged-edged music on the piano, while the other
was industriously engaged with a troublesome E string.

"Father, Uncle John!" called Constance, gently, "come here. I want you
to meet my friend Marjorie Dean."

Both musicians left their self-appointed tasks and came forward.

Marjorie gave her soft little hand to each in turn, and they bowed over
it with almost old-style courtesy. She looked curiously at Constance's
father. His daughter did not in any way resemble him. His was the face
of a dreamer, rather thin, with clean-cut features and dark eyes that
seemed to see past one and into another world of his own creation. In
spite of his white hair he was not old. Not more than forty-five, or,
perhaps fifty, Marjorie decided. The other man was much older, sixty at
least. He was very thin, and his gentle face wore a pathetically vacant
expression that brought back to Marjorie the rush of bitter words
Constance had poured forth on the day when she had declined to be
friends. "We take care of an old man who people say is crazy, and folks
call us Bohemians and gypsies and even vagabonds."

"I c