"You are prepared to entertain me, I
see, and I am prepared to be entertained."

"Do you really like music?"

"I really like music; but then I may
have ideas of my own as to what I call
music."

"Oh, I shall be sure to be able to find
something to please you; for I do a little
in all styles: so I will try you with a
variety."

She played first a weird valse by Chopin:
she rattled it off brilliantly, with very
creditable, though not flawless, execution.

"I know beforehand that that is neither
your style nor Aunt Daisy's, Mr. Stewart,"
Myrrha said, as she twirled herself round
on the music-stool to investigate her
auditors.

"It is a good beginning, at all events,
Miss Brown; it gives us an opportunity of
judging the mechanical part of your
talent."

"Dear me! you'll make me nervous! If
I think I am to be listened to in such a
judicial and critical spirit, I shan't do
myself half justice."

"Do you then prefer ignorant applause
to enlightened criticism?"

"I don't see why you should take for
granted that the applause can only come
from the ignorant, and from the enlightened
only criticism! Well, I'm going now to
play you something in quite a different
style."

She played a sonata of Mozart's: when
she ended she turned to look at Mr. Stewart,
prepared to receive his compliments
triumphantly: Mr. Stewart gravely shook his
head.

"What does that mean, Mr. Stewart?"
Myrrha asked, with wondering eyes.

"Am I to speak frankly, Miss Brown?"

"Of course." But already the tone was
pettish and the face cloudy.

"I think that performance was a signal
failure. It seems to me you fail entirely
in catching and rendering the Mozartism of
Mozart, the tender grace, the——"

"Oh, pardon!" exclaimed Myrrha, elevating
her pretty brows. "I had no notion
I was playing to an enthusiast. To tell the
truth, I don't so much care about
'understanding ' a composer. I like to make his
music say what I please, not just slavishly
to say what he pleases!"

"Then, of course, you set yourself beyond
the pale of criticism. But you should have
prepared us beforehand for what was
coming; should have told us that we were
not going to listen to Mozart played by
Miss Brown, but to Miss Brown through
Mozart."

Myrrha eyed Mr. Stewart somewhat long
and largely.

"I shan't play to you any more to-night.
I shall try if my singing suits you better."

She sang half a dozen of what she
considered her best songs, one after the other,
in rapid succession, giving no time for
criticism, and feeling confident that now,
at last, she was dazzling her listeners.

There was something so frank in the way
her face expressed that confidence when she
ceased and turned round, that Mr. Stewart,
both touched and amused, gave her all
the praise he could honestly bestow. He
praised the possibilities of her voice, which
was a fine contralto, and remarked that,
with diligent study and good instruction,
he thought she would, one day, sing very
finely.

"'Diligent study! good instruction'!"
Myrrha echoed, amazedly. "Why, I've
practised ever so many hours a day, for
ever so many years, and I've had lessons
from a prima donna! It must be that this
room is so wretchedly low for singing—
then the piano is out of tune, and I think
I've got a slight cold. But, Mr. Stewart,"
she demanded, after a sullen pause, "what
can make you think I want good
instruction?"

"Well, it seemed to me that you had not
mastered the very elements of good singing
—did not know how properly to bring out
your fine voice."

"Are you a music-master?" Myrrha
asked, rudely. "Perhaps you will give me
the 'good instruction' of which you think
I am so much in need?"

"I fear I must not have that honour."

After that answer, Mr. Stewart talked
entirely to Daisy.

Myrrha, drooping her pretty head
dejectedly, threw herself on a sofa; there she
sat, sullen and silent, for perhaps a quarter
of an hour; then got up, and said,
"Good-night!"

Mr. Stewart lighted her candle; as he
held it to her he brightened her whole
being again, by asking at what time
tomorrow she would like to ride, should the
day be fine, as he thought it promised
to be.

"That's the cleverest way of winning
my forgiveness!" she said. "But, Mr.
Stewart, if you don't like my riding any
better than you like my playing, my singing,
and, perhaps, I may add, myself——"

"Any one light and graceful as you are,