fused.

Much embarrassed, she went to the piano, which stood in the next room,
just beyond the arch, and struck a few chords. The instrument was old
and worn, but still sweet, and, fearful at first, but gaining confidence
as she went on, Iris sang an old-fashioned song.

Her voice was contralto; deep, vibrant, and full, but untrained. Still,
there were evidences of study and of work along right lines. Before she
had finished, Irving was beside her, resting his elbow upon the piano.

"Who taught you?" he asked, when the last note died away.

"Herr Kaufmann," she replied, diffidently.

"I thought he was a violin teacher."

"He is."

"Then how can he teach singing?"

"He doesn't."

Irving went no farther, and Miss Temple, realising that she had been
rude, hastened to atone. "I mean by that," she explained, "that he
doesn't teach anyone but me. I had a few lessons a long time ago, from a
lady who spent the Summer here, and he has been helping me ever since.
That is all. He says it doesn't matter whether people have voices or
not--if they have hearts, he can make them sing."

"You play, don't you?"

"Yes--a little. I play accompaniments for him sometimes."

"Then you'll play with me, won't you?"

"Perhaps."

"When--to-morrow?"

"I'll see," laughed Iris. "You should be a lawyer instead of a
violinist. You make me feel as if I were on the witness stand."

"My father was a lawyer; I suppose I inherit it." Iris had a question
upon her lips, but checked it.

"He is dead," the young man went on, as though in answer to it. "He died
when I was about five years old, and I remember him scarcely at all."

"I don't remember either father or mother," she said. "I had a very
unhappy childhood, and things that happened then make me shudder even
now. Just at the time it was hardest--when I couldn't possibly have
borne any more--Aunt Peace discovered me. She adopted me, and I've been
happy ever since, except for all the misery I can't forget."

"She's not really your aunt, then?"

"No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she wouldn't want me to call her
'mother,' even if I could."

The talk in the other room had become merely monosyllables, with bits of
understanding silence between. Iris went back, and Mrs. Irving thanked
her prettily for the song.

"Thank you for listening," she returned.

"Come, Aunt Peace, you're nodding."

"So I was, dearie. Is it late?"

"It's almost ten."

In her stately fashion, Miss Fi