"The good old dame at the farm is ill, and she says that music all day is enough for her, and I must come here, or I should get no chance of playing at all at night." "But surely you feel an inspiration in the place, do you not ?" Cornelia persisted.
She looked at this lady as if she had got a hard word given her to crack, and muttered: "I feel it quite warm here.

And I do begin to love the place." The stately Cornelia fell back a step.
The moon was now a silver ball on the edge of the circle of grey blue above the ring of firs, and by the light falling on the strange little person, as she stood out of the shadow to muffle up her harp, it could be seen that she was simply clad, and that her bonnet was not of the newest fashion.

The sisters remarked a boot-lace hanging loose.

The peculiar black lustre of her hair, and thickness of her long black eyebrows, struck them likewise.

Her harp being now comfortably mantled, Cornet Wilfrid Pole, who had been watching her and balancing repeatedly on his forward foot, made a stride, and "really could not allow her to carry it herself," and begged her permission that he might assist her.
"It's very heavy, you know," he added.
"Too heavy for me," she said, favouring him with a thankful smile.