"Not here, though."
"But it will not be less joy because it is saved for by and by. Now that way of talking makes me angry; I believe there is very little faith."
"Very little, I grant. But poor Florimond Anastase does not fail there."
She stopped beside me as we were pacing the lawn.
"Florimond Anastase! you did not say so? Do you mean the great player? I have heard of that person."
Her face flushed vividly, as rose hues flowing into pearl, her aspect altered, she seemed convicted of some mistaken conclusion; but, recovering herself almost instantly, resumed,—
"Thank you for telling me that story,—it will make me better, I hope. I do not deserve to have grown up so well and strong. May I do my duty for it, and at least be grateful! You did not say what was done with the symphony?"
"The person I mentioned would not allow it to be retained. And, indeed, what else could be done? It was buried in her virgin grave,—a maiden work. She sleeps with her music, and I know not who could have divided them."
"You have told me a story that has turned you all over, like the feeling before a thunder-storm. I will not hear a word more. You cannot afford to talk of what affects you. Now, let me be very impertinent and change the key."
"By all means; I have said quite enough, and will thank you."