Volunteers, and send it to him at Eastborough Centre
as soon as possible. It was many days before that letter reached its
destination.
He then sat down in his favorite armchair and began thinking out the
details of his aggressive campaign against the singing-master. He had
disposed of his enemy in half a dozen pitched battles, when the sound of
the piano fell upon his ear.
She was playing. He hoped she was a good musician, for his taste in that
art was critical. He had studied the best, and he knew it when he heard
it sung or played. The piano was a good one, its tone was full and
melodious, and it was in perfect tone.
He listened intently. He looked and saw that he had unintentionally left
the door of his room ajar. The parlor door, too, must be open partly, or
he could not have heard so plainly. What was that she was playing? Ah!
Mendelssohn. Those "Songs Without Words" were as familiar to him as the
alphabet. Now it is Beethoven, that beautiful work, "The Moonlight
Sonata," she was evidently trying to recall her favorites to mind, for
of course she could not be playing by note.
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