Lucy shot a glance at him, keen as lightning. What with David's simplicity and her own remarkable talent for reading faces, his countenance was a book to her, wide open, Bible print. “The composer's name is Mr. Dodd,” said she, quietly.
“I little thought you would be satisfied with it,” replied David, obliquely.
“Then you doubted my judgment as well as your own talent.”
“My talent! I should never have composed an air that would bear playing but for one thing.”
“And what was that?” said Lucy, affecting vast curiosity. She felt herself on safe ground now—the fine arts.
“You remember when you went away from Font Abbey, and left us all so heavy-hearted?”
“I remember leaving Font Abbey,” replied Lucy, with saucy emphasis, and an air of lofty disbelief in the other incident.
“Well, I used to get my fiddle, and think of you so far away, and sweet sad airs came to my heart, and from my heart they passed into the fiddle. Now and then one seemed more worthy of you than the rest were, and then I kept that one.”
“You mean you took the notes down,” said Lucy coldly.
“Oh no, there was no need; I wrote it in my head and in my heart. May I play you another of your tunes? I call them your tunes.”