er the notes.

"I don't know. I suppose it never occurred to us, and, as you may have
noticed, there is a dearth of graciousness among us. But for you to
keep such a possession a secret was more than cruel. Sing again."

"I must not monopolize the piano: other people can sing too."

"Not like you." He pauses, and then says, slowly, "I used to think
nature was impartial in the distribution of her gifts,--that, as a
rule, we all received pretty much the same amount of good at her hands;
to one beauty, to another talent, and so on; but I was wrong: she has
her favorites, it appears. Surely already you had had more than your
share, without throwing in your perfect voice."

Molly lowers her eyes, but makes no reply; experience has taught her
that this is one of the occasions on which "silence is golden."

"You sing yourself, perhaps?" she says, presently, when she has tired
of waiting for him to start a subject.

"Occasionally. Will you sing this with me?" taking up a celebrated duet
and placing it before her. "Do you know it?"

"Yes, Mr. Luttrell and I used to sing it often at Brooklyn: it was a
great favorite of ours."

"Oh, that! Indeed!" laying it aside with suspicious haste. "Shall we
try something else?"

"And why something else?" composedly. "Does that not suit your voice?
If it does, I will sing it with you with pleasure."

"Really?" regarding her closely, with what is decidedly more than
admiration in his gaze. "Are there no recollections hidden in that
song?"

"How can I tell? I never saw that particular edition before. Open it,
and let us see," returns Molly, with a merry laugh. "Who knows what we
may find between the pages?"

"If I might only believe you," he says, earnestly, still only half
convinced. "Do you mean to tell me Luttrell spent an entire month with
you, and left you heart-whole? I cannot believe it."

"Then don't," still laughing.

At this instant, Luttrell, who has with moody eyes been watching
Philip's eager face from the other end of the room, saunters up, and
seeing the old well-remembered duet lying open before Molly, suddenly
thinks it may be there for him, and cheering up, says pleasantly:

"Are you going to sing it with me?"

"Not to-night," Molly replies, kindly; "Philip has just asked me to
sing it with him. Some other time."

"Ah!" says Luttrell, more wounded than he cares to confess; for is not
that very song endeared to him by a thousand memories? and turning on
his