Now her countenance, hitherto varying and anxious, settled into a warm flush of joy; she drew close to the musician, and resting one hand on the back of his chair, placed the other softly on his arm.
"Joseph—Joseph Esmond," she said, in a voice that scarcely rose above a whisper. "Is it you, Joseph?"
He started and turned his eyes toward her.
"I know the touch of your hand, Mary Fuller; and your voice is full of the old music. Where am I? How does it happen that you and I meet here?"
"I live here—I have friends, oh! such kind friends. And you, Joseph, how came you here? Where is your father—that dear, good father? Surely he is well."
"My father," said the youth, bowing his head, with a look of touching sorrow, "my father is dead—I am alone in the world, but for this!"
He touched his violin with a mournful smile.
"Then you and I are orphans alike." But she added more cheerfully, "we are not alone, you have your music, and your art, and I have my, my—oh, I have many things."
"Music, music!" called out the dancers, impatiently, from the floor.
Mary drew back.