“I thought he was a violin teacher.”

“He is.”

“Then how can he teach singing?”

“He doesn’t.”

Irving went no farther, and Miss Temple, realising that she had been rude, hastened to atone. “I mean by that,” she explained, “that he doesn’t teach anyone but me. I had a few lessons a long time ago, from a lady who spent the Summer here, and he has been helping me ever since. That is all. He says it doesn’t matter whether people have voices or not—if they have hearts, he can make them sing.”

“You play, don’t you?”

[Pg 9]

[Pg 9]

“Yes—a little. I play accompaniments for him sometimes.”

“Then you’ll play with me, won’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

“When—to-morrow?”

“I’ll see,” laughed Iris. “You should be a lawyer instead of a violinist. You make me feel as if I were on the witness stand.”

“My father was a lawyer; I suppose I inherit it.” Iris had a question upon her lips, but checked it.

“He is dead,” the young man went on, as though in answer to it. “He died when I was about five years old, and I remember him scarcely at all.”

“I don’t remember either father or mother,” she said. “I had a very unhappy childhood, and things that happened then make me shudder even now. Just at the time it was hardest—when I couldn’t possibly have borne any more—Aunt Peace discovered me. She adopted me, and I’ve been happy ever since, except for all the misery I can’t forget.”

“She’s not really your aunt, then?”

“No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she wouldn’t want me to call her ‘mother,’ even if I could.”

[Pg 10]

[Pg 10]

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