very fond of it, but"—he glanced up quizzically—"how about opportunities?"
The vista of gray, pointed gables, the street, vacant but for the rusty Newfoundland perennially asleep on the pink sand, stretched away dead and silent toward the taut skyline of the bay.
"Opportoonities ain't blockin' traffic there, are they?" drawled the captain.
"I should n't say all this," continued the musician, "to a man of your—your active service in real life—except that I know a very little about one subject. That girl, as they say, has music in her. You knew that?"
"She plays real lively, my opinion," ventured Captain Christy.
"More than that," the other assented. "When you think of that old chest of whistles"—With his ferule he transfixed a leaf, twirled it, studied it, then looked the captain in the eye. "She's a wonder!" he declared fervently. "Mind, I don't say she 'll be a great player, and that nonsense,—but a good one. She has—the gift. I'm not an enthusiastic man, you know—less than ever.
