“Margery,” he said, “fix up the bedroom next to yours, then come down to me in the parlor.”
The old woman heard him without a question, though never before could she remember when the guest-chamber had been used, or a visitor staid overnight at the house.
When she had obeyed his instructions she presented herself at the parlor-door. There was no lamp in the room, only a narrow strip of light fell upon the floor from across the hall, but it did not penetrate the heavy shadow, and Margery, with a half-uttered apology upon her lips, drew back. At the sound of the woman’s steps, Franz came out of the gloom.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“What is the matter?”
“I did not know you was playin’, or I would have waited,” said the servant, respectfully, who had learned long ago never under any circumstances to interrupt her master at his practice.
“I was not playing.”
“Warn’t it you, sir? It was so dark I could not see.”
“Me? no; nor any body else. No one was playing.”
“Why, I thought I heard—but it must have been the wind,” said Margery, glancing across her shoulder to the vacant piano-stool. “I thought I heard music just as I opened the door.—The room is ready, sir.” Franz bent over the sofa and raised the sleeping form in his arms. Turning to Margery, he said,—