“It seems foolish, does it not, Lancy?” she said at last, “but it is no common piece of music, and I shall never be able to play it before strangers.”

“No; neither shall I, Dexie.  That music speaks to your heart and mine alike.  Let it be for ourselves alone, will you, Dexie?” and the grey eyes looked very dark in their earnestness.

“Well, have it so, Lancy.  I will be able to play it properly by and by, I expect.  But I never noticed the name of it.”

“It is simply called ‘A Song Without Words.’  Let us name it again to suit ourselves.”

“Very well.  I came in to ask you into our side of the house.  The picnic is being discussed; but I don’t feel a bit like going back myself now—­that music has almost upset me.”

“Well, stay with me and let us have a quiet ‘sing’ by ourselves here; that will be pleasanter than discussing a picnic—­shall we?”

When Hugh looked into the door a short time afterwards, he saw nothing that need have caused such a frown to wrinkle up his manly brow, for Lancy was only playing a simple ballad, and Dexie was seated in a low rocker some distance from the piano, her hands clasped behind her head, singing softly, her whole appearance seeming to suggest rest and contentment.  Perhaps that very suggestion goaded him to bitterness, for why couldn’t Dexie be as contented and happy in his society as in Lancy’s?

The picnic came off as planned, and was enjoyed by all excepting Hugh, who, finding he could not have the companion of his choice, coaxed little Gracie and Ruth Gurney to go with him, and they willingly consented.  But Gussie looked with angry eyes on the fine turnout, “just wasted on those little torments,” as the light buggy flew past the more sober-going horses that were bringing up the rear.

She forgot her anger, however, when she returned home and found that Mr. Plaisted had arrived during their absence.

Bless us! how very amiable we can be when we want to make a deep impression on someone’s soft heart!

Gussie’s face was now all smiles.  Her words were all sweet when Mr. Plaisted was by anyway, and as it is an ill wind that blows nobody good, Dexie felt grateful enough for anything that would cause Gussie to be a little better-natured than she had been during the last few weeks, and Gussie’s very unexpected offer, to “keep the parlor dusted while Plaisted is here,” touched Dexie to the heart.

But his presence made Dexie’s task much harder than usual.  Such a “lie-a-bed” as he was in the mornings, and he expected to be served with a hot breakfast whatever might be the hour of his appearance.

Nancy remembered him of old, and resented the added work, and Dexie tried almost in vain to pour oil on the troubled waters.

One evening, when Plaisted was about to retire, Dexie handed him his lamp, saying: 

“Our breakfast hour is eight o’clock, Mr. Plaisted, and if you will rise at the first bell you will have plenty of time to curl your hair before the breakfast bell rings.”