Milton Nesbit had been passed round, so to say, from one fair maid to another, and all were struck with the sad beauty of his manly face, but unable to elicit many words from him, as his thoughts were many miles away with the fair woman he had left behind him. But now it was Alice who was talking to him. That incessant little chatterbox did not give him much time to talk or to think, even if he had been so inclined,—she had so much herself to say. It was said in a way so quaint and sweet, and as she was mistress of the house and a married woman he felt himself more at ease and more free in her society, and ere long she managed to hold his attention, and soon he found himself admiring the dainty color in her cheeks, the pearly teeth gleaming from between rosy lips, the mischief sparkling in the clear blue eye, while her voice sounded like tinkling music. The large room was pretty well filled with ladies and gentlemen, but as she pointed each one out to him it was with a word of praise and love for some peculiar trait, attraction or accomplishment. Not one disparaging word, and as his eyes followed her indications he thought he had never found so much harmony.
While his eyes were roving from one to another they rested on Cora who had but just entered the room. Was it that he had not seen her before, or was it that she possessed some feature more attractive than the others? His eyes followed her every movement as she gracefully found her way to the piano and seating herself thereat began a prelude, and soon the rich, full voice filled the room with its rare music, while the sweet tones slightly trembled as the words dropped from her lips:
Across the sobbing sea of doom
The weary world is slowly drifting.
Eyes wet with tears peer through the gloom,
Yet see no sign of rest or rifting.
Still angels bright from some far height,
Repeat through hoots of weary waking—
“Hope’s starlight shines through darkest night,
To keep the world’s great heart from breaking!”