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that character who had spoken to me yesterday, as soon as Sylvia gave me that interesting name, Agatha. She spoke again:
    When the knowledge came to me that I was dear to a human heart, it was like a magic spell changing the cold, solitary girl into a fond and hopeful woman. Life grew bright and beautiful. The sad past seemed to vanish, lost in the blissful present.
    So my new story was to be a love story!
    I went for a walk that afternoon through Boston Common, admiring the frosting of snow decorating the ancient oaks, and laughing at the children skating upon the pond, as they tumbled and shrieked and worried their proud mothers with the speed and skill of their activity. It seemed as though this new character, Agatha, walked beside me, and I felt her sadness and her terror and her passion. She was not one to wait for the legitimacy of vows. When her Philip declared herface was charming, her singing sweeter than any he had ever heard, she gave him all her love freely.
    Oh, Agatha. Foolish woman! Do you not know that men often least desire that which is easiest won? Hers would be no simple love story, I decided. There would be a terrible crime.
    That led me to think about the woman who had inspired my new character, Mrs. Agatha Percy. I admired her skills at playacting, for there was more of spy work in her pronouncements than tidings from the deceased. Certainly it had required only listening to gossip to determine what message would most make Sylvia alert. Her mother had been pleading with her for four years now to accept one of the many men who had promised their hearts. Sylvia disdained their offers, suspecting that her railroad shares were more of an attraction than herself. As for my surprise visitor, certainly that was a common pronouncement at such circles and no great risk to state. So much, I thought, for crystal gazers.
    During my walk I passed the shop window of Mr. Crowell’s Music Store, a favorite place of my sister Lizzie, and it reminded me that I had not yet selected a Christmas present for the musical member of the family.
    The window was adorned with a gay green silk wreath and filled with sheets of music, metronomes in handsome mahogany casings, tuning forks, and the other paraphernalia enjoyed by Apollo’s tuneful children. But what caught my eye was a handsome portfolio, bound in red leather, of new piano pieces by Liszt.
    Liszt, gentle reader, was one of Lizzie’s favorite composers. I entered the shop, the doorbell tingling merrily, and found Mr. Crowell at his counter, making a small arrangement of little boxes of violin strings.
    “Ah! Miss Alcott!” he greeted me in friendly manner. “How is Miss Elizabeth?”
    “Well, and in New Hampshire with Mother and Father,” I said. “And Mrs. Crowell?”
    “Well, and in the back room, making plans for a party.” He sighed and grinned. “A party! In my shop! I never thought.”
    “For Christmas?”
    “For Christmas, and for the lottery. I’ve an announcement, Miss Alcott, one you may want to pass on to our Elizabeth. I’ve purchased three lessons, an hour each, from Signor Massimo, and I’ll hold a drawing to find a winner for those lessons. Isn’t that a fine idea? He takes so few students, and it is such an honor to study with him!”
    Signor Massimo? The very same artist who had not arrived at Mrs. Percy’s séance?
    “Has he been ill, our Signor Massimo?” I asked Mr. Crowell.
    “Not at all. He’s in fine health.”
    Then he is sensible as well as talented, I thought. He rejected Mrs. Percy’s invitation. And wouldn’t it be fine if I won those lessons for Lizzie? She could come to Boston for a week, and then return to Walpole.
    “May I purchase a ticket for the drawing?” I asked Mr. Crowell, inspired.
    He sighed and lifted his hands, palms up. “Tickets cannot be purchased,” he explained. “There will be only twelve issued, one to each of the persons who buys one of the new Liszt portfolios.”
    That situation suited me