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There was a delicious fragrance in the air, a fragrance as of flowers. "Only how can it be flowers?" thought August. "It is December!" From afar off, as it seemed, there came a dreamy, exquisite music, as sweet as the spinet's had been, but so much fuller, so much richer, seeming as though a chorus of angels were singing all together. August ceased to think of the museum: he thought of heaven.
There was a delicious fragrance in the air a fragrance as flowers. "Only how can it be flowers?" thought August. "It is November!" From afar off, as it seemed, there came a dreamy, exquisite music, as sweet as the spinet's had been, but so much fuller, so much richer, seeming as though a chorus of angels were singing all together. August ceased to think of the museum; he thought of heaven.
"Delightful!" cried Cicely, ecstatically "There's nothing sweeter in the whole world to sing to!" Opening the painted lid with the greatest tenderness and care, she passed her hands lightly over the spinet's worn and yellow ivory keys and evoked a faint fairy-like tinkling. "Listen!
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