what a picture he made there, sitting on one foot on the sofa, with the other foot in its dainty slipper dangling towards the floor, while, in his earnest talking, his color came and went, and his smile and frown succeeded each other by turns.
“As long as you were not at church last night,” the young man proposed, “suppose I sing something to you now. That is, of course, if Miss Carter will excuse us.” And he looked to her for her consent.
“That isn’t much like Muir,” said Mr. Washburn in a low tone, as his friend seated himself at the piano. “He isn’t given to singing, except when he has to. He seems to have taken a fancy to your charge there.”
“Fred surely returns the compliment,” said Bess, as the boy followed to the piano. “I don’t see what has come over him to talk so much to a stranger, for he is usually so shy.”
“Muir is irresistible to nearly everybody, I find,” replied the rector quietly.
Then they were silent, as Mr. Muir played a little prelude, light, rocking, swinging, with an occasional dash like the breaking of a tiny wave
