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Lorimer had no pretense to
musical talent; asked, he confessed he could "strum a little," and he
seemed to see the evident wonder and admiration he awakened in the minds
of many to whom such "strumming" as his was infinitely more delightful
than more practiced, finished playing. Just now he seemed undecided,--he
commenced a dainty little prelude of Chopin's, then broke suddenly off,
and wandered into another strain, wild, pleading, pitiful, and
passionate,--a melody so weird and dreamy that even the stolid
Macfarlane paused in his toddy-sipping, and Duprez looked round in some
wonderment.
"_Comme c'est beau, ca!_" he murmured.
Errington said nothing; he recognized the tune as that which Thelma had
sung at her spinning-wheel, and his bold bright eyes grew pensive and
soft, as the picture of the fair face and form rose up again before his
mind. Absorbed in a reverie, he almost started when Lorimer ceased
playing, and said lightly--
"By-bye, boys! I'm off to bed! Phil, don't wake me so abominably early
as you did this morning.


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