n winds that have blown all day long, bringing in the
salt freshness to do battle with the hot shafts of the sun and conquer
them. The side of the house toward the river shows stone arches,
door-less, opening into a hall; beyond is a large room, lighted by two
candles placed on an old-fashioned piano; and full in their yellow
radiance sits Miss Elisabetha, playing, with clear, measured touch, an
old-time minuet. The light falls upon her face, with its sharp,
high-curved features, pale-blue eyes, and the three thin curls of blonde
hair on each side. She is not young, our Elisabetha: the tall, spare
form, stiffly erect, the little wisp of hair behind ceremoniously
braided and adorned with a high comb, the long, thin hands, with the
tell-tale wrist-bones prominent as she plays, and the fine network of
wrinkles over her pellucid, colorless cheeks, tell this. But the boy who
listens sees it not; to him she is a St. Cecilia, and the gates of
heaven open as she plays. He leans his head against the piano, and his
thoughts are lost in melody; they do not take the form of words, but
sway to and fro with the swell and the ebb of the music. If you should
ask him, he could not express what he feels, for his is no analytical
mind; attempt to explain it to him, and very likely he would fall asleep
before your eyes. Miss Elisabetha plays well--in a prim, old-fashioned
way, but yet well; the ancient piano has lost its strength, but its
tones are still sweet, and the mistress humors its failings. She tunes
it herself, protects its strings from the sea-damps, dusts it carefully,
and has embroidered for it a cover in cross-stitch, yellow tulips
growing in straight rows out of a blue ground--an heirloom pattern
brought from Holland. Yet entire happiness can not be ours in this
world, and Miss Elisabetha sometimes catches herself thinking how
delightful it would be to use E flat once more; but the piano's E flat
is hopelessly gone.

"Is not that enough for this evening, Theodore?" said Miss Elisabetha,
closing the manuscript music-book, whose delicate little pen-and-ink
notes were fading away with age.

"Oh, no, dear aunt; sing for me, please, 'The Proud Ladye.'"

And so the piano sounded forth again in a prim melody, and the thin
voice began the ballad of the knight, who, scorned by his lady-love,
went to the wars with her veil bound on his heart; he dies on the field,
but a dove bears back the veil to the Proud Ladye, who straightway fal