In response to his call a girl came running out of the door. Tall she was and slight, the plainness of her face redeemed and glorified by wonderful dark eyes. A girl in face and expression, though in years she had long passed the period of girlhood.
“You are very late, Papa,” she exclaimed “and very naughty indeed. You must be tired and hungry.”
“My dear, my dear, what matter? We have had a glorious morning, my friend and I. Ah! This is my friend, Mr. Paul—” he hesitated—“your other name?”
“Gaspard.”
“Ah! Gaspard! Mr. Paul Gaspard. French, my dear, French. That is where he gets his music. French, of course!” The old gentleman was much delighted. “Mr. Gaspard, my daughter Julie. A wonderful young man this, Julie. Now we must hasten through dinner in order that we may have some music.”
But Julie would have none of this. “Papa,” she said severely, “you must at once go and prepare yourself for dinner. Show Mr. Gaspard to your room. And then we shall sit down and quietly enjoy our Sunday dinner, and we shall take full time to it too.”
“Ah! Julie, you are so material. You are so much of this world.”
“It is well for you that somebody is material and of this world. But run away and get ready.”
It said much for Julie’s housekeeping powers that the unexpected appearance of a guest in that small family produced no apparent embarrassment. The dinner was simple, and, to a young man fresh from the ranges, not too substantial, but quite sufficient for the old organist, who picked daintily at his food, and for his daughter.
Her father was full of his discovery of Paul, much to the latter’s embarrassment, who protested that he was not a musician and assured Julie that he played the piano but a very little.