"
"Indeed not," he said, "but I was thinking where I had seen a lute. Ah!
it is in the little west parlour."
"A lute!" cried Mary. "Ah! but I have no music; and I have not the
courage to sing the only song I know, over and over again."
"But there is music too," said Anthony.
Mary clapped her hands.
"When dinner is over," she said, "you and I will go to find it."
Dinner was over at last, and the four rose.
"Come," said Mary; while Isabel turned into the garden and Mr. Buxton
went to his room. "We will be with you presently," she cried after
Isabel.
Then the two went together to the little west parlour, oak-panelled, with
a wide fireplace with the logs in their places, and the latticed windows
with their bottle-end glass, looking upon the walled garden. Anthony
stood on a chair and opened the top window, letting a flood of summer
noises into the room.
They found the lute music, written over its six lines with the queer F's
and double F's and numerals--all Hebrew to Anthony, but bursting and
blossoming with delicate melodies to Mary's eyes. Then she took up the
lute, and tuned it on her knee, still sitting in a deep lounging-chair,
with her buckled feet before her; while Anthony sat opposite and watched
her supple flashing fingers busy among the strings, and her grave
abstracted look as she listened critically. Then she sounded the strings
in little rippling chords.
"Ah! it is a sweet old lute," she said. "Put the music before me.
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