The magic of all music began for her in the sweet, thin notes of the old square piano; the key to fairy land lay hidden somewhere in that shelf of well-worn books.
Yet to-night she entered with a hesitating step.

It was obvious that she felt no pleasure in the cool greenness.

The room was the same room but it was as if the expression on a well-known face had unaccountably changed and become forbidding.

The girl sighed as she flung her hat upon a chair.
"Esther," Jane's voice, somewhat obscured by the eating of the promised apple, came through the open window, "are you sure about Timothy being in the Happy Hunting Grounds ?" "Of course, dear." "But he wasn't what you would call a Christian, Esther ?" "He was a good dog." "Can Timothy chase chickens there ?" "Probably." "And cats ?" "Certainly cats." "Is that what happens to bad cats when they die ?" Esther viewed this logical picture of everlastingly pursued cats with some dismay.
"N-o.

I don't suppose it would be real cats." "But Tim wouldn't chase anything but real cats." "Jane, I wish you wouldn't talk with your mouth full." Being thus reduced to giving up the argument or the apple, Jane abandoned the former.