"Never mind the harp.

It's easily replaced." "Not that one!" she moaned.
"We will get you another." "I shall never love any but that." "Perhaps we may hear good news of it to-morrow." "No; for I felt it die in my hands.

The third blow was the one that killed it.

It's broken." Wilfrid could not reproach her, and he had not any desire to preach.

So, as no idea of having done amiss in coming to the booth to sing illumined her, and she yet knew that she was in some way guilty, she accused herself of disregard for that dear harp while it was brilliant and serviceable.