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“Before you go, Philip,” said Aunt Katherine after dinner, “may I have some music?”

“Certainly,” replied Philip promptly, seating himself at the piano. “What will you have, Auntie? College songs and ragtime are not in your line, are they?”

It was a pretty picture,—the beautiful room, the dark, rich wood of the piano, Philip’s glowing face and Cathalina’s smiling one, looking over the piano at her brother.

A sparkling, indefinite prelude passed gradually into a dreamy theme that suited the relaxed mood of the family. Then followed several well-known classics till Philip rose suddenly and with one hand on his heart bowed low in exaggerated concert style to Aunt Katherine, who laughed and tossed him a crimson rose with which she had been playing.

“What was that pretty thing you played first,—after your preliminaries?” she asked, as Philip sat down again and began to turn the pages of a collection of songs which Cathalina handed him.

“Something by a new composer, I believe, Auntie,” replied Philip with a wink at Cathalina. “I couldn’t tell you the name of it.”