I shall never have facility.

And I've no voice--just a small sound like the squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes." Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white hands move quickly over the keys.

When she stopped she kissed the child good-bye, held her close, looked at her long.

"Be very good," she said; "give pleasure to your father." "I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered.

"He has not much pleasure; he's rather a sad man." Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it almost a torment to be obliged to conceal.