e mysterious missile came from
these objectionable young persons, it was evidently because they
thought they had detected a more accessible and sympathizing individual
in the stranger who now occupied the room. He concluded he had better
not say anything about it.

Miss Brooks's golden eyelashes were bent towards the floor. "Do you
play sacred music, Mr. Bly?" she said, without raising them.

"I am afraid not."

"Perhaps you know only negro-minstrel songs?"

"I am afraid--yes."

"I know one." The dimples faintly came back again. "It's called 'The
Ham-fat Man.' Some day when mother isn't in I'll play it for you."

Then the dimples fled again, and she immediately looked so distressed
that Herbert came to her assistance.

"I suppose your brother taught you that too?"

"Oh dear, no!" she returned, with her frightened glance; "I only heard
him say some people preferred that kind of thing to sacred music, and
one day I saw a copy of it in a music-store window in Clay Street, and
bought it. Oh no! Tappington didn't teach it to me."

In the pleasant discovery that she was at times independent of her
brother's perfections, Herbert smiled, and sympathetically drew a step
nearer to her. She rose at once, somewhat primly holding back the
sides of her skirt, school-girl fashion, with thumb and finger, and her
eyes cast down.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bly."

"Must you go? Good afternoon."

She walked directly to the open door, looking very tall and stately as
she did so, but without turning towards him. When she reached it she
lifted her eyes; there was the slightest suggestion of a return of her
dimples in the relaxation of her grave little mouth. Then she said,
"good-bye, Mr. Bly," and departed.

The skirt of her dress rustled for an instant in the passage. Herbert
looked after her. "I wonder if she skipped then--she looks like a girl
that might skip at such a time," he said to himself. "How very odd she
is--and how simple! But I must pull her up in that slang when I know
her better. Fancy her brother telling her THAT! What a pair they must
be!" Nevertheless, when he turned back into the room again he forbore
going to the window to indulge further curiosity in regard to his
wicked neighbors. A certain new feeling of respect to his late
companion--and possibly to himself--held him in check. Much as he
resented Tappington's perfections, he resented quite as warmly the
presumption that he was not quite as