The men know well enough that it is useless to
follow her in when she goes to play in the twilight--if they did she
would send them back again, or stop playing. And as it is worth much to
hear her play when she has a certain mood upon her, nobody does anything
to break the spell. Sometimes the listening grows almost painful, but
before we are quite overwrought she comes back and makes us gay again.
"When I was a boy," said the Skeptic, very softly to me, after the music
stopped, "I used to pick out men to admire and follow about, and
consume myself with wishing that some day I could be like them. How
could a girl like that one we've had here to-day look at our Gay Lady
and not want to copy her to the last hair on her head?"
"There are some things which can't be copied," I returned. "She is one
of them."
The Skeptic gave me a grateful glance. "You never said a truer thing
than that," said he.
Perceiving that he was in a sentimental mood, and that the Gay Lady had
stopped playing and was coming out again upon the porch, I turned my
attention to the Philosopher.
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