Rising, he tucked his violin under his arm, and showed himself ready to follow.
"Good night, Miss Byrom," said Mary.
"Good night, miss," returned Ann, grimly. "I'm sorry for you both, miss. But, until the spirit is poured out from on high, it's nothing but a stumbling in the dark."
This last utterance was a reflection rather than a remark.
Mary made no reply. She did not care to have the last word; nor did she fancy her cause lost when she had not at hand the answer that befitted folly. She ran down the stair, and at the bottom stood waiting her new acquaintance, who descended more slowly, careful not to make a noise.
She could now see, by the gaslight that burned on the landing, a little more of what the man was. He was powerfully built, rather over middle height, and about the age of thirty. His complexion was dark, and the hand that held the bow looked grimy. He bore himself well, but a little stiffly, with a care over his violin like that of a man carrying a baby. He was decidedly handsome, in a rugged way—mouth and chin but hinted through a thick beard of darkest brown.
"Come this way," said Mary, leading him into Letty's parlor. "I will tell my friend you are come. Her room, you see, opens off this, and she will hear you delightfully. Pray, take a seat."
"Thank you, miss," said the man, but remained standing.
"I have caught the bird, Letty," said Mary, loud enough for him to hear; "and he is come to sing a little to you—if you feel strong enough for it."
"It will do me good," said Letty. "How kind of him!"