"I shall ask her to give me her opinion of your abilities," Sir Jasper said. "I heard someone practising on the piano this afternoon. Which of you was that?"
"Oh, it was I!" Joy cried, a flush rising to her sallow cheeks. "I'm afraid I don't play very well; but I love music dearly."
"You play remarkably well for your age," Sir Jasper told her. "I wonder if you know any of my favourite tunes—'The Last Rose of Summer,' for instance?"
"No; but I am sure I could learn it if I had the music," Joy replied.
"Come with me to the library," the old man said, abruptly.
He hobbled on in front, whilst the child: followed in silence. Neither Celia nor Joy had ventured to enter the library as yet, though they had been curious to see the room where Sir Jasper spent most of his days. It proved to be a long, low apartment, dim in the evening light, the walls lined with books, and the writing-table strewn with papers. In one corner stood an old-fashioned, high-backed piano which Jasper opened.
"Come, which of you is going to give me some music?" he asked. "Are you musical, Celia?"
"Not very, I'm afraid," Celia acknowledged, regretfully, for she was most desirous of making a favourable impression upon Sir Jasper. "Of course I do play, but not so well as Joy."
Sir Jasper turned to Joy, who, after moment's hesitation, took her seat at the piano and struck the opening notes of a piece of music she knew by heart. She was very nervous at first, but she gained confidence as she played, and delighted Sir Jasper, who thanked her very cordially when at length she stopped and turned around on the piano stool to see if he was satisfied.
"Thank you, my dear," he said, earnestly, "you have given me a great treat. Until now no one has touched that piano since my son died. His were the last fingers to play upon it. You have a talent for music which should be cultivated."