“EUGENIA,” said Louis Gaston, tapping at his sister-in-law’s door one morning, “I stopped to say that I will get tickets for Miss Trevennon and yourself for the opera Monday evening, if you say so.”

“I don’t say so, my dear Louis, I assure you,” returned Mrs. Gaston opening her door and appearing before him in a tasteful morning toilet. “If you take Margaret and me to the opera, it must be for your own pleasure; she is not the kind of guest to hang heavily on her hostess’ hands. I’ve never been at a loss for her entertainment for a moment since she has been here, and what is more, scarcely ever for my own. I find myself quite equal to the task of providing for her amusement, and so it has not been difficult for me to keep my promise of not calling upon you in her behalf.”

“You certainly never made me any such promise as that, and it would have been very absurd if you had.”

“Ah, perhaps then it was to Margaret that I made it! The main point is that I’ve kept it.”

“Of course, Eugenia, it goes without saying, that when you have a young guest in the house my services are at your disposal.”

“Oh, certainly. Only, in this instance, I prefer to let all suggestions come from yourself. I know you only put up with my Southern relatives because of your regard for me, and, strong as is my faith in that sentiment, I don’t want to test it too severely; but I won’t detain you. Mrs. Gaston and Miss Trevennon accept with pleasure Mr. Gaston’s kind invitation for Monday evening. The opera is Favorita—isn’t it? Margaret has never heard it, I know; it will be very nice to initiate her. Will you be at home to dinner to-day?”

“Yes, of course,” replied the young man, looking back over his shoulder as he walked away.“Oh, of course!” soliloquized his sister-in-law, as she turned back into her apartment. “Quite as if you were never known to do otherwise! Oh, the men! How facile they are! Louis, as well as the rest! I had expected something to come of this case of propinquity, but I did not expect it to come so quickly. He hasn’t dined out more than twice since she’s been here, and then with visible reluctance, and he has only been once to New York, and I suspect the designs are suffering. And Margaret too! It’s quite the same with her—saying to me last night that his manners are so fine that she is constrained to admit that, taking Louis as an exponent of the Northern system, it must be better than the one she had always supposed to be the best! It works rapidly both ways, but there must be a hitch before long, for in reality they are as far asunder as the poles. Every tradition and every prejudice of each is diametrically opposed to the other. How will it end, I wonder?”

It happened that Mrs. Gaston did an unusual amount of shopping and visiting that day, and was so fatigued in consequence that she had dinner served to her in her own apartment, and Margaret dined alone with the two gentlemen. Afterward she went up and spent an hour with the vivacious invalid, whom she found lying on the bed, surrounded by an array of paper novels by miscellaneous authors, the titles of which were of such a flashy and trashy order that Margaret felt sure she would never have cared to turn the first page of any of them, and wondered much that her intelligent and cultivated cousin could find the least interest in their contents. Mrs. Gaston was in the habit of ridiculing these novels herself, but would say, with a laugh, that they were “the greatest rest to her,” and Margaret was continually expecting to find her immersed in some abstruse work, which would sufficiently tax her mental powers to account for the liberal allowance of relaxation which was to counteract it; but, so far, she had been disappointed.

Mrs. Gaston laid her novel by on Margaret’s entrance, and gave her young cousin a cordial welcome. The two sat talking busily until General Gaston came up to his dressing-room to prepare for a lecture to which he was going, and to which he offered to take Margaret. His wife put her veto on that plan, however, pronouncing it a stupid affair, and saying that Margaret would be better entertained at home.

“But you are not to stay up here with me, my dear,” she said. “Go down stairs. Some one will be coming in by-and-by, I dare say, and you must not think of coming back to entertain me. I am bent on seeing how this absurd story ends; it’s the most deliciously preposterous thing I ever read,—so bad, that it’s good! Say good-night now, dear. I know you are never dull; so I dismiss you to your own devices. I don’t know where Louis is, but he may come and join you after a while. There’s never much counting on him, however.”

When Margaret descended to the drawing-room, the library doors were thrown apart, and through them she could see Louis Gaston bending over some large sheets of heavy paper, on which he was drawing lines by careful measurement. He looked up at the sound of her footsteps, and, as she took a magazine from the table, and seated herself in a large chair before the fire, he came in with his pencil in his hand, and leaning his back against the end of the mantel, said:

“Eugenia tells me you have never seen Favorita, and I so rejoiced to put an end to that state of affairs! You don’t know what an absolute refreshment it has been to me to observe your enjoyment of the music you have heard since you have been here. I don’t think I have ever received from any one such an impression of a true appreciation of music. It seems rather odd, as you neither play nor sing yourself.”

“It pleases me to think that my own incapacity does not interfere in the least with my enjoyment of music,” Margaret said. “When I hear beautiful music my pleasure in it is not impaired by any feeling of regret that I cannot produce such a thing myself. It no more occurs to me to long for that, than to long to create a beautiful sunset when I see one.”

“The fact that one is attainable, while the other is not, would make a difference, I think.” He paused a moment, and then went on with his pleasant smile: “Do you know this discovery of mine—that of your fastidious appreciation of music—has been the thing that deterred me from inflicting any of my own upon you? I was so set against this that I made Eugenia promise not to acquaint you with the fact that I can sing a little.”

“How could you do that?” exclaimed Margaret, reproachfully, with a keen conception of what lovely effects in singing might be produced by this richly modulated voice, whose spoken utterances she so admired. “I might have had such delight in hearing you sing! I am accustomed to having music so constantly at home. We have a friend there, a young man, who is almost like one of our own household, who sings beautifully. He has a lovely voice, so pure and strong, but entirely uncultivated. In some things it shows this almost painfully, but there are others that he renders exquisitely. Sacred music he sings best.”

“Ah, that I have never tried, at least not much. Your friend’s voice is the opposite of mine. I had really very little to begin with, and an immense deal of practice and training has not enabled me to do much more than direct properly the small amount of power I possess, and disguise its insufficiency more or less. It isn’t very much, after all, and yet how I have pegged away at my scales and exercises! I had a most exacting master when I was in Germany, and as I was studying my profession at the same time, I wore myself almost to a skeleton. I studied very hard at the School of Architecture, but I never practised less than three hours a day—often four.”

He was talking on, very lightly, but he stopped short, arrested by an expression on the face of his companion that he was at a loss to account for. There was a look of enthusiastic ardor in her eyes that amounted to positive emotion.

“How can you speak so lightly of a thing that was really so noble?” she said, in a voice full of feeling.

Louis’ face broke into a smile of sheerest astonishment, but at the same time he felt himself strangely stirred by the feeling that he had roused this warm admiration in the breast of this fair young lady.

“My dear Miss Trevennon,” he said earnestly, “you amaze me by applying such a word to my conduct. I went abroad to study architecture and music, and there was every reason why I should make the most of the three years I had allotted to these purposes. That I did my part with some degree of thoroughness was only what I felt bound to do, in the simplest justice to myself and others. When I think of the fellows who accomplished twice what I did, contending against such obstacles as poverty, or ill-health, or the absence of proper facilities, I find the word noble, as applied to myself, almost humiliating. Do you know, your views on some points are extremely puzzling to me?”

“I am at sea,” said Margaret gently, with a hesitating little smile. “Things that I see about me seem strange and unfamiliar, and I often feel that I have lost my bearings. But your resolute application to studies that must often have been wearying and laborious, to the exclusion of the relaxations most young men find necessary, rouses my profound admiration. I have never known a man who was capable of a thing like that.”

“Will you do me the kindness to tell me if I am blushing?” said Louis. “I veritably believe so, and as it is a thing I have never been known to do before, I should like to have the occurrence certified to. I venture to hope, however, that the fact is accounted for by my being physically thick skinned, and not morally so, for I have known myself to be blushing when the fact would not have been suspected by outsiders. Just now, however, I fancy it must have been evident to the most casual observer.”

He saw that the levity of his words and tones were, for some reason, discordant to Miss Trevennon, and so he spoke in a graver voice, as he said:

“I feel musical to-night, and almost as if I could overcome the hesitation I have spoken of sufficiently to sing you some of the music of Favorita in anticipation of Monday night.”

“Oh, why don’t you? It would be so delightful!” exclaimed Margaret, fired at the suggestion.

“I never feel that I can sing well when I have to play my own accompaniments,” he said. “But for that——”

“Oh, if you have the music, do let me play for you!”

“Could you do it? I thought you did not play. Have you also been practising concealment?”

“My music amounts to nothing, but I could easily manage an accompaniment. Have you the notes?”

“Yes, just at hand. What a delightful idea! I never thought of this. You shouldn’t have cheated me out of such a pleasure all this time. Let me open the piano. Come!”

He tossed his pencil down upon the table, and moved across the room as he spoke. Seeing his action, Margaret checked herself as she was following, and said suddenly:

“I forgot your work. I really cannot interfere with that.”

“Never mind the work. The work may go. I’ll make it up somehow. Could you manage this, do you think?”

By way of answer, Margaret seated herself and ran over the prelude with tolerable ease, and at the proper time nodded to him to begin.

There was no interruption until the really impressive voice had died away in the last note, and then Margaret dropped her hands on her lap and said, with a long-drawn breath:

“I can see no lack. It is most beautiful. I think you must have greatly under-estimated your voice. It has a quality that touches me deeply.”

“What there is of it does pretty well,” Louis answered, smiling, well pleased at her earnest commendation. “Ames says I’m the best singer to have no voice that he ever heard, which is the greatest amount of praise I can lay claim to.”

“I feel more than ever, now, the lack of cultivation in Mr. Somers’ voice,” said Margaret. “It is really a grand organ, but he scarcely knows how to sing anything with entire correctness, unless it is something in which he has been carefully drilled by some one who knows a little more than himself. I wish he could hear you sing.”

“I wish I could hear him,” said Louis. “If he has the voice, the cultivation can be acquired readily enough; but with me the utmost has been done. Much of this music is rather beyond me. Let us try a ballad.”

He was bending over the rack, in search of some particular piece, when the door-bell sounded. They both heard it, and their eyes met with a look of disappointment.

“It’s too bad,” said Margaret, regretfully. “I don’t want to be interrupted.”

“In that case,” said Louis, promptly, arresting the servant on his way to the door by a quick motion of the hand, “suppose you allow me to have the ladies excused.”

Margaret assented readily, and the order was accordingly given.

A moment later the servant came into the room, presenting two cards on a tray. Gaston glanced at them, and Margaret saw his face change slightly.

“I am afraid Eugenia will make me suffer for this,” he said. “One of these visitors was young Leary.”

“Who is he?” asked Margaret, simply.

“You surely know who the Learys are?” Gaston replied, in a tone of reproachful incredulity that was almost severe. “They come of one of the most distinguished families at the North, and are here for the winter. The father of this young man has held various important diplomatic and political offices. They visit very little, and Eugenia will be annoyed that young Leary has not been admitted. I don’t think he has ever called here before, except to acknowledge an invitation. He sat near us at the theatre the other night, and I saw that he observed you; so this visit is probably a tribute to you.”

“I don’t know that you have said anything about him to make me regret him especially,” said Margaret, “only that he’s Mr. Leary; and what’s in a name? Is there any reason why one should particularly desire him as an acquaintance?”

Mr. Gaston looked slightly bewildered. Then he began to speak, and checked himself suddenly. Then, turning back to the piano, and beginning to look over the music, he said, somewhat hurriedly:

“It is only that they are people it’s well to be civil to.”There was something in the tone Louis took, in regard to this matter, that puzzled Margaret—a tone that had also puzzled her in the other members of the Gaston family. There seemed to be a certain anxiety with all of them to know the right people, and be seen at the proper houses, and have only the best people at their own. Margaret Trevennon, for her part, had never had a qualm of this sort in her life, and supposed, moreover, that only vulgar or uncertainly posed people could possibly be subject to them. And yet here were people who were not only not vulgar but more elegant and charming than any men and women she had ever known, who were entitled to, and actually held, an unimpeachable social position, and who yet seemed to find it necessary to struggle hard to maintain it, and were continually possessed by a positive anxiety to appear to be distinguished! Really, it seemed their first and principal concern. This was the first time she had seen a decided indication of the feeling in Louis Gaston, and somehow it hurt her more in him than in the others. Unconsciously she gave a little sigh.

“Dear me!” she thought to herself, “what an unpleasant idea! Why need people assume anything, when they actually have it all? It never occurred to me that really nice people could give themselves any concern of this sort.”

And then, as she turned and suddenly met Louis’ eyes, her face broke into a smile of sudden amusement.

“What is it?” said the young man, eagerly.

“I was laughing at some lines from the ‘Bab Ballads’ that happened to come into my head just then,” she said.

“What were they? I dote upon the Babs. Do let’s have them.”

quoted Margaret. “I dare say they don’t seem very relevant. But come, let’s go on with the music,” she added, hurriedly. “We must not prolong the interruption.”Mr. Gaston had smiled at her quotation and then become suddenly grave. As he selected a sheet of music and put it on the rack before her, he said seriously:

“I sometimes see that there are little points that we look at very differently. Perhaps we may come to understand each other by-and-by. I hope so, sincerely. And now, are you familiar with this, and do you care for it?”

The selection happened to be a favorite of Margaret’s, and she entered delightedly into its rendition, and very soon the lovely strains of the sweet, sympathetic voice had banished all discordant thoughts and memories.

“There, Miss Trevennon,” he said, as the song came to an end, “you’ve heard me do my little best now. Your accompaniments suit me perfectly. I am sure I never sang better. I hope we may have many another pleasant evening, such as this, together.”

Margaret had risen from the piano and was standing before the fire, and she watched him with mingled interest and surprise, as he neatly replaced the music in the rack, lowered the instrument, and carefully arranged the cover, with a habit of orderliness of which she had also seen indications in General Gaston. It was to her almost a new trait, in men.

“Cousin Eugenia insists upon early hours, now that I am not going out,” said Margaret, “so, as it is half-past ten, I will say good-night. I feel rather guilty,” she added, pausing in the door-way, “for interrupting your work to-night. I dare say you wanted to finish it.”

“Oh, as to that, it isn’t a matter of choice,” he murmured; “Ames must have those estimates to-morrow, and they are bound to go on the morning train.”

“And when are they to be done?”

“Now, at once. I can easily finish them off to-night,” he replied carelessly. “Pray don’t look as if you had committed a mortal sin, Miss Trevennon,” he added, smiling. “I assure you I don’t weigh this little nocturnal application as dust in the balance against the pleasure I’ve had in this musical evening with you. I hope it is not on my account you are hurrying off. I assure you there is abundance of time for my purposes. I shall take these papers to my room and finish them.”

But Margaret, bent upon not hindering him further, retired at once.

The next morning Mrs. Gaston asked her brother-in-law at breakfast, whether he had not passed her room about sunrise, and, with some confusion, he was compelled to own that he had.

“What provoking ears you have, Eugenia!” he said; “I flattered myself that a mouse could not have been more noiseless. I am sorry to have disturbed you, especially as you had not been feeling well.”

“Oh, I was awake, at any rate. But what was the occasion of your early expedition?” she asked, without showing any especial surprise.

“I had to post some papers to Ames,” he said; “and though I had told Thomas I would ring for him to take them, the morning was so bright and clear that I fancied I should like the walk. And really it was most refreshing.”

“I can fancy you needed refreshment,” Mrs. Gaston said, “if, as I don’t doubt, you had been at work all night.”

Mr. Gaston made no response. He was helping himself from a dish offered by a servant at the moment, and seemed disposed to let the matter drop; but Margaret, urged by an irresistible impulse, arrested his eye and said quickly:

“Had you?”

“Had I what, Miss Trevennon?”

“Had you been at work all night?”

“Pretty much, I believe; but why do you look so tragic? I am not in delicate health, that the lack of a little sleep should entail serious consequences.”

“‘Pleasure the way you like it’!” said Mrs. Gaston. “Louis really likes that sort of thing; he deserves no credit for it. I used to apprehend that I should find myself brother-in-law-less very shortly in consequence of those habits, but he thrives on them; he’s the healthiest person I know. Don’t waste your sympathy on him, Margaret; keep it all for me. It isn’t those who endure hardships, but those who can’t endure them that should be pitied.”