overflow of the eaves. It was still light enough to see the fine color
of the leather that covered the armchairs, and the glossy black of a
piano, heaped with a litter of music. Near the piano, leaning against
the wall, a violoncello curved its brown crook-neck over the shapeless
bag that sheltered it.

Lydia pointed to it. "You're musical!" she said, as if she had made an
important discovery.

Rankin roused himself, followed the direction of her gaze, and shook
his head. "No; I can't play a note," he said cheerfully, laying the
rain-coat down and going to look over the pile of overshoes in a box;
"but I like it. My queer old great-aunt left me that 'cello. It had
belonged to her grandfather. I believe being so old makes it quite
valuable. The piano belongs to an old German friend of mine who has seen
better days and has now no place to keep it. Two or three times a week
he comes out here with an old crony who plays the 'cello, and they make
music till they get to crying on each other's necks."

"Do you cry, too?" Lydia smiled at the picture.

Rankin came back to the fire with a pair of rubbers in his hand. "No;
I'm an American. I only blow my nose hard," he said gravely.

"Well, it must be lovely!" She sighed this out ardently, sinking back in
her chair. "I love music so it 'most kills me, but I don't get very much
of it. I took piano lessons when I was little, but there were always so
many other things to do I never got time to practice as much as I wanted
to, and so I didn't get very far. Anyhow, after I heard a good orchestra
play, my little tinklings were worse than nothing. I wish I could hear
more. But perhaps it's just as well, Mother says. It always gets me so
excited. I'm sure I should cry, along with the Germans."

"They would like that," observed her host, "above everything."

"Father keeps talking about getting one of those player-pianos, but
Mother says they are so new you can't tell what they are going to be.
She says they may get to be too common."

Rankin looked at her hard. "Would you like one?" He asked this trivial
question with a singular emphasis.

"Why, I haven't really thought," said Lydia, considering the matter.

The man looked oddly anxious for her answer.

Finally, "Why, it depends on how much music you can make with them. If
they are really good, I should want one, of course."

Rankin smiled, drew a long breath, and fell sober again as if at a
sudden thought.

"I don't see a