He could not tell which was the greater pleasure . Her beauty , more wonderful than any pictured loveliness he had ever seen , delighted him . Every tint and curve and outline of her face was flawless . Her music enthralled him . This child , he told himself as he listened , had genius . But it was being wholly wasted . He found himself thinking resentfully of the people who were her guardians , and who were responsible for her strange life . They had done her a great and irremediable wrong . How dared they doom her to such an existence ? If her defect of utterance had been attended to in time , who knew but that it might have been cured ? Now it was probably too late . Nature had given her a royal birthright of beauty and talent , but their selfish and unpardonable neglect had made it of no account . What divine music she lured out of the old violin -- merry and sad , gay and sorrowful by turns , music such as the stars of morning might have made singing together , music that the fairies might have danced to in their revels among the green hills or on yellow sands , music that might have mourned over the grave of a dead hope . Then she drifted into a still sweeter strain . As he listened to it he realized that the whole soul and nature of the girl were revealing themselves to him through her music -- the beauty and purity of her thoughts , her childhood dreams and her maiden reveries . There was no thought of concealment about her ; she could not help the revelation she was unconscious of making . At last she laid her violin aside and wrote , `` I have done my best to give you pleasure . It is your turn now . Do you remember a promise you made me last night ? Have you kept it ? ''
He gave her the two books he had brought XXXXX her -- a modern novel and a volume of poetry unknown to her .
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