"Celie!" called John. With a crash the photograph slipped from her hands to the floor.
"Oh!" she cried breathlessly, "how you frightened me!"
"Come in, Stuyv," said John, loudly. "Look what she's looking at! Your picture!" Stuyvesant didn't answer. He had set his teeth, and his chin was very square.
"How long were you there?" asked Cecilia.
"We just came in," said Stuyvesant, before John could answer.
"I just picked up your picture," said Cecilia. "John hadn't shown it to me. I'm sorry I was stupid and broke the glass."
She moved, and Stuyvesant's eyes followed her, a heartache too large for concealment showing in them.
"Whatcha go for?" asked John. "Stay and talk!"
"I really can't, dear," she answered. "I'm sorry." Then, nodding, she disappeared. In a moment they heard the sound of the piano. Some one who could feel, as well as play, was tinkling out "The Shepherd Boy."
"She does it for dad," said John, "because he likes it, but you ought to hear her play good music. She's a wonder; why, in school——"