“May I see the miniature?” asked Reed at her elbow.
“Mrs. Austin painted it; you know that miniatures are her specialty, and there is nothing in the world I would rather have,” Ellen told him. “It is such a good likeness of my dear mother.”
The young man looked at it earnestly. “I don’t wonder you treasure it,” he said, “and——”
But here he was interrupted by Mr. Barstow, who came up with a large package which he laid in Ellen’s arms, saying: “I wanted to give you this myself. It was your father’s, and I want you to have it.”
Ellen eagerly undid the string and took off the wrappings. “Oh, Don Pedro, Don Pedro!” she breathed. “Daddy’s violin, and you are giving it to me? But I shouldn’t take it; it is too valuable.”
“Not too valuable for dear old Gerry’s daughter. No, child, I want you to take it. All the better that it is valuable, for if you get into a hole some day you can sell it.”
“Let me know when you reach the hole,” spoke up Reed. “I always have been crazy about that violin, haven’t I, Uncle Pete? It has a most wonderful tone.”
“Then you have played on it.”
“Often.”
“Then play a farewell.” She gave the violin into his hands and he drew the bow across the strings, tuned up, and played the simple air of “Holy Night.” Then he handed back the instrument “Now you,” he said.