But, no, I don't; for, if I could be of any assistance to you, you would not let me; you are too proud, Miss Grant.
I like you all the better for the fact." "Oh, but you have helped me, more than you know," Celia said, quickly.
"You don't know what a delight it is to me to hear the violin you play so beautifully; but, of course, you are an artist." "Thank you," he said, his voice almost inaudible, and yet with that peculiar vibrance in it.

"I was afraid I worried you." "No, no," said Celia; "I am always sorry when you leave off.

You play me to sleep sometimes and--and keep me from brooding.

Not that I have any cause to brood," she added, quickly; "for I count myself lucky." "Yes," he said; "you are lucky; for you have youth, beauty--I beg your pardon," he apologized with a little bow and a gesture which were strangely courtly.

"And best of all, you have hope; without that, one is indeed unfortunate." He rose, and Celia accompanied him to the door; it was only a few steps distant; but the old man moved towards it as if he had been accustomed to traversing apartments of a larger size.