It's quite enough a man should deceive his own self, without another to come and help him." "To speak the truth is not to deceive," replied Mary.

"I have some knowledge of music, and I say only what is true." "What good can it be spending his time scraping horsehair athort catgut ?" "They must fancy some good in it up in heaven," said Mary, "or they wouldn't have so much of it there." "There ain't no fiddles in heaven," said Ann, with indignation; "they've nothing there but harps and trumpets." Mary turned to the man, who had not said a word.
"Would you mind coming down with me," she said, "and playing a little, very softly, to my friend?
She has a little baby, and is not strong.

It would do her good." "She'd better read her Bible," said Ann, who, finding she could no longer see, was lighting a candle.
"She does read her Bible," returned Mary; "and a little music would, perhaps, help her to read it to better purpose." "There, Ann!" cried the player.
The woman replied with a scornful grunt.
"Two fools don't make a wise man, for all the franchise," she said.
But Mary had once more turned toward the musician, and in the light of the candle was met by a pair of black eyes, keen yet soft, looking out from tinder an overhanging ridge of forehead.

The rest of the face was in shadow, but she could see by the whiteness, through a beard that clouded all the lower part of it, that he was smiling to himself: Mary had said what pleased him, and his eyes sought her face, and seemed to rest on it with a kind of trust, and a look as if he was ready to do whatever she might ask of him.
"You will come ?" said Mary.
"Yes, miss, with all my heart," he replied, and flashed a full smile that rested upon Ann, and seemed to say he knew her not so hard as she looked.
Rising, he tucked his violin under his arm, and showed himself ready to follow.
"Good night, Miss Byrom," said Mary.
"Good night, miss," returned Ann, grimly.

"I'm sorry for you both, miss.