Sylvester’s weariness returned, and ere long she led the way to her apartments upstairs. As Paula was hastening to follow Mr. Sylvester stopped her.
“You will not allow this unfortunate occurrence,” he said, with a slight gesture towards the picture now standing with its face against the wall, “to mar your first sleep under my roof, will you Paula, my child?”
“No, not if you say that you think Cousin Ona will not be likely to connect it with my appearance here.”
“I do not think she will; she is not superstitious and besides does not seem to greatly regret the misfortune.”
“Then I will forget it all and only remember the music.”
“It was all you anticipated?”
“It was more.”
“Sometime I will tell you about the player and the sweet young girl he loves.”
“Does he—” she paused, blushing; love was a subject upon which she had never yet spoken to anyone.
“Yes he does,” Mr. Sylvester returned smiling.
“I thought there was a meaning in the music I did not quite understand. Good night, uncle,”—he had requested her to address him thus though he was in truth her cousin, “and many, many thanks.”
But he stopped her again. “You think you will be happy in these rooms,” said he; “you love splendor.”
She was not yet sufficiently acquainted with his voice to detect the regret underlying its kindly tone, and answered without suspicion. “I did