The music was a bugbear to her, because it prevented her from saying what was on her own mind.

At length it ended, her father was turning over the various books and sheets.

She looked at him quickly, seizing her opportunity.
"Are you going out, Father ?" she said.
"Eh ?" "Are you going out ?" She twisted nervously.
"What do you want to know for ?" He made no other answer, and turned again to the music.

His eye went down a sheet--then over it again--then more closely over it again.
"Are you ?" persisted the child, balancing on one foot.
He looked at her, and his eyes were angry under knitted brows.
"What are you bothering about ?" he said.
"I'm not bothering--I only wanted to know if you were going out," she pouted, quivering to cry.
"I expect I am," he said quietly.
She recovered at once, but still with timidity asked: "We haven't got any candles for the Christmas tree--shall you buy some, because mother isn't going out ?" "Candles!" he repeated, settling his music and taking up the piccolo.
"Yes--shall you buy us some, Father?
Shall you ?" "Candles!" he repeated, putting the piccolo to his mouth and blowing a few piercing, preparatory notes.
"Yes, little Christmas-tree candles--blue ones and red ones, in boxes--Shall you, Father ?" "We'll see--if I see any--" "But SHALL you ?" she insisted desperately.

She wisely mistrusted his vagueness.
But he was looking unheeding at the music.