"You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. “Lucy, where is your callous? All violinists have calluses on their necks and hands from playing. ’ She shuddered, throwing her hands over her face. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me.
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