Again
Mr. Hastings remembered the beautiful rosewood instrument, whose
tones had been so long unheard in his silent home, and he said,
"Do you not like Ella's piano?" while a feeling, shadowy and
undefined, stole over him, that possibly it might, some day, be
hers; and Eugenia, divining his thoughts, answered artfully, "Oh,
very much. I used to enjoy hearing dear Ella play, but that don't
do me any good. It isn't mine, you know."
Very softly and tenderly the beautiful black eyes looked into his,
and the voice was low and gentle, as it breathed the sacred name
of Ella. It was the hour of Howard Hastings's temptation; and,
scarce knowing what he did, he essayed to speak--to offer
_her_ the piano, whose keys had been so often touched by the
fairy fingers, now folded away beneath the winter snow. But his
lips refused to move; there was a pressure upon them, as if a
little hand were laid upon his mouth to prevent the utterance of
words he had better far not speak. Thus was he saved, and when
Eugenia, impatient at his delay, cast towards him an anxious
glance, she saw that his thoughts were not of her, and, biting her
lips with vexation, she half petulantly asked, "if he had any
intention of going to the city that week?"
"Yes--no--certainly," said he, starting up as if from a deep
reverie.
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