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came up to her, as she sat near the piano, idly turning over a book of music, and asked her if she ever played duets with the violin.

“Yes, sometimes,” she said, looking at him with a straight penetrating glance, which seemed to suit oddly with her girlish and haphazard manner and appearance. “Why, do you play?”

“Oh, I fumble away at it a bit. I have rather a good fiddle, which was given to me long ago by a man I used to know, and I would sell my soul to play on it properly. Would you like to see it?”

When he brought the case Alice opened it and fondly took up the violin with the touch of an expert.

“No, I don’t play myself, but my father is something of a fiddler, and I know lots of music. Shall we try some of these early sonatas of Mozart’s? Something simple, I think, would be best.”

Her manner plainly said that the simplest pieces would, in all probability, be most adapted to his execution. Nevertheless, Campbell played fairly well, and really had a soul for music. Like most amateurs, he only wanted practice—what an only!—and the duet was so far a success that it required to be repeated almost every morning—whenever the young musician happened to be in the mood for a lesson or a rehearsal.