“It was all you anticipated?”
“It was more.”
“Sometime I will tell you about the player and the sweet young girl he loves.”
“Does he—” she paused, blushing; love was a subject upon which she had never yet spoken to any one.
“Yes he does,” Mr. Sylvester returned smiling.
“I thought there was a meaning in the music I did not quite understand. Good night, uncle,”—he had requested her to address him thus though he was in truth her cousin, “and many, many thanks.”
But he stopped her again. “You think you will be happy in these rooms,” said he; “you love splendor.”
She was not yet sufficiently acquainted with his voice to detect the regret underlying its kindly tone, and answered without suspicion. “I did not know it before, but I fear that I do. It dazzled at first, but now it seems as if I had reached a home towards which I had always been journeying. I shall dream away hours of joy before each little ornament that adorns your parlors. The very tiles that surround the fireplace will demand a week of attention at least.”
She ended with a smile, but unlike formerly he did not seem to catch the infection. “I had rather you had cared less,” said he, but instantly regretted the seeming reproach, for her eyes filled with tears and the tones of her voice trembled as she replied,
“Do you think the beauty I have seen has made me forget the kindness that has brought me here? I love fine and noble objects, glory of color and harmony of shape, but more than all these do I love a generous soul without a blot on its purity, or a flaw in its integrity.”