THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
"I believe church is over." She got up. "Would you like to hear me play the piano?"
"You can play? Well, say!"
"Come along, then. There is a piano in the alcove over the dining-saloon; and if there's no one around I'll play for you. The truth is, I've been hungering to touch that piano."
They succeeded in getting into the alcove without attracting attention; and shortly after William sat back in his chair, feeling that his soul had been plucked out of him and cast among the clouds. She played lightly and dreamily at first; half the time the music was but a low ripple of murmurous sounds. Bach, Grieg, Beethoven, Rubinstein, Chopin; it is doubtful if at that time William had ever heard of them; but, strangers though they were, they knew how to play with his temperamental soul. He was really fond of good music; he had heard just enough of it in the past to whet his taste for it; and what he heard this morning set his desires in full cry. What he could not understand was that she could play all these wonderful compositions without notes.
They both awoke suddenly and embarrassedly to the realization that they had an unsuspected audience. The two balcony-corridors were filled with delighted auditors. A muffled round of applause greeted the performer as she rounded out the brilliant finale of Chopin's Fourth Ballade. She had forgotten herself; her skill and ardor had smothered her caution.
"We're in for it now!" whispered William, with
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