“I play,” she said. “Give it me.”
Her ladyship exclaimed angrily—
“No! Put it away, cousin. I will not have it so misused.”
He laughed.
“O, Kate! Never so churlish. Those fingers, I’ll go bail, were not made for hurt or discord. I prithee, sweet Kate.”
“Give it me,” said Moll entreatingly. “I’ll use it so I’ll make you all love me.”
Too indignant and too proud to protest further, the young Countess contented herself by flinging into a chair, where she sat with her back turned obstinately on the performer.
And Moll played, her fingers fluttering over the strings like butterflies, and drawing honey wheresoever they alighted. It was not great music, accomplished, soul-stirring; but it was very natural and very moving, quite true, quite simple, welling from the little spring that was her one pure sincerity. And presently—just as, sympathetically, when notes and chords are struck you may see a caged bird’s throat swell and throb, until the responsive rapture comes irresistibly bubbling forth and overflowing—her voice melted into, or took up, the melodious refrain her hands were shaping; and in a moment she was singing a little song, as sweet as a thrush upon a tree—
When my love comes, O, I will not upbraid him!
He meant but for kindness the gift that he gave.