Margaret had risen quickly as he entered. "Oh, but it's Sunday," she answered.
"I thought perhaps there wouldn't be any objection to something sacred," he said. His manner was respectful, and altogether different from that of the morning; and he had been attentive to Hannah all the afternoon—which was soothing to Margaret.
"We used to sing and play hymns in mother's time," Mrs. Vincent said; "the old piano was only given to the school when James died. It was worn out and I thought they'd be glad of it." The sequence was not quite clear, but no one perceived it. "I wish you could play hymns, Margey."
"Oh, but I can play something that is quite beautiful," she answered, and went towards the piano.
"Allow me," Mr. Garratt said, opening it.
He stood behind her in an attitude while Chopin's magnificent chords rolled upward—to Gerald Vincent's books, and down to the gray-haired woman in the chintz-covered chair, before they stole out of the open window into the Dutch garden and the indefinite wood beyond, as if they sought the cathedral.
"Margaret," cried Hannah, hurrying from the kitchen, "close the piano at once. Sunday is no time for playing."
"It's nothing frivolous," said Margaret; "it's a funeral march."
"I'll not have it done," Hannah answered doggedly, always jealous of Margaret's accomplishments. "There's a shake in it, and it's a piece only fit for week-days."
"People used to be buried on Sundays; what harm can there be in a funeral piece?" Mrs. Vincent asked.