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The Arden Foresters found the summer days none too long. They still met Celia in the arbor now and then; and it was her stories of the Gilpin house, of the ring and the spinet, together with the constant sight of the closed shutters and doors, that led to an adventure one warm August day.

The pianoforte took the place of our grandmother's spinet and harpsichord, and every girl in every family was taught to play upon it after a fashion. She who had not taste or talent for music gave it up after her marriage.

All you've got to do is to answer us when we ask for prices. Now, bear that in mind, and don't try any of your high-and-mighty tactics on us." "Just remember that you're a junk-dealer and we'll get along splendidly," said the other, in a tone meant to crush me. "What do you ask for this thing?" tapping the dusty spinet with his walking-stick.

It isn't as hard as cleaning house or washing, as some of the poor women do. And it is tiresome to practise on the spinet, hour after hour counting time and all that. If I was a girl of twenty years ago I'm afraid I should be chasing up and down some old garret, spinning on the big wheel." Cousin Eunice laughed, too.

What's I done tole you, honey?" But my lady flew from the room. Presently I heard the spinet playing softly, and the words of that air came out of my heart from long ago. "Love me little, love me long, Is the burthen of my song. Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste. Still, I would not have thee cold, Nor too backward, nor too bold.

The swinging light in the hall partly illuminated it, or rather glanced gloomily from the black polished furniture, the lustreless chairs, the quaint cabinet, the silent spinet, the skeleton-legged centre-table, and finally upon the motionless figure of a man seated by the fire.

I dreamed on and presently fell asleep. I awoke to the saddest music I had ever heard. The room was quite dark, I had no idea what time it was. A ray of moonlight silvered one edge of the old spinet, and the polished wood seemed to exhale the sounds as perfume floats above a box of sandalwood.

No merry laughter, no cheerful singing resounded through these spacious halls; no pleasant ladies, in light, airy, summer costume swept through the fragrant apartments; M. d'Adhemar no longer sits at the spinet, and sings with his rich voice the beautiful arias from the opera "Richard of the Lion Heart," in which royalty had its apotheosis, and in which the singer Garat had excited all Paris to the wildest demonstrations of delight!

What's I done tole you, honey?" But my lady flew from the room. Presently I heard the spinet playing softly, and the words of that air came out of my heart from long ago. "Love me little, love me long, Is the burthen of my song. Love that is too hot and strong Burneth soon to waste. Still, I would not have thee cold, Nor too backward, nor too bold.

Three old elbow-chairs, some rickety stools, a writing-table, on which were two or three volumes of music, some dried plants laid on white-brown paper; beside the table stood an old spinet, and, close to the latter article of furniture, sat a fat and well-looking cat.