A mist rose before his eyes--he could not see, he could not trust
himself to speak, but, raising the violin, his pent-up feelings burst
forth in a flood of liquid music of such commingled sweetness and
sadness as to hold his listeners entranced. Mr. Underwood, for once
forgetful of his pipe, looked into the fire with a troubled gaze; he
understood little of the power of expression, but even he comprehended
dimly the sorrow that surged and ebbed in those wild harmonies. Mrs.
Dean, her hands folded idly above her work, sat with eyes closed, a
solitary tear occasionally rolling down her cheek, while in the shadows
Kate, her face buried on Duke's head and neck, was sobbing quietly.
Gradually the wild strains subsided, as the summer tempest dies away
till nothing is heard but the patter of the rain-drops, and, after a few
bars from a love-song, a favorite of Kate's, the music glided into the
simple strains of "Home, Sweet Home." And as the oppressed and
overheated atmosphere is cleared by the brief storm, so the overwrought
feelings of those present were relieved by this little outburst of
emotion.
A pleasant evening followed, and, except that the "good-nights"
exchanged on parting were tenderer, more heartfelt than usual, there
were no indications that this was their last night together as a family
circle.
Darrell had been in his room but a short time, however, when he heard a
light tap at his door, and, opening it, Mrs. Dean entered.
"You seem like a son to me, Mr. Darrell," she said, with quiet dignity,
"so I have taken the liberty to come to your room for a few minutes the
same as I would to a son's."
"That is right, Mrs. Dean," Darrell replied, escorting her to a large
arm-chair; "my own mother could not be more welcome."
"You know us pretty well by this time, Mr. Darrell," she said, as she
seated herself, "and you know that we're not given to expressing our
feelings very much, but I felt that I couldn't let you go away without a
few words with you first. I sometimes think that those who can't express
themselves are the ones that feel the deepest, though I guess we often
get the credit of not having any feelings at all."
"If I ever had such an impression of you or your brother, I found out my
error long ago," Darrell remarked, gravely, as she paused.
"Yes, I think you understand us; I think you will understand me, Mr.
Darrell, when I say to you that I haven't felt anything so deeply in
years as I do your leaving us now--not so much the mere fact of your
going away as the real reason of your going. I felt bad when you left
for camp a year ago, but this is altogether different; then you felt,
and we felt, that you were one of us, that your home was with us, and I
hoped that as long as you remained in the West your home would be with
us. Now, although there is no change in our love for you, or yours for
us, I know that the place is no longer a home to you, that you do not
care to stay; and about the hardest part of it all is, that, knowing the
circumstances as I do, I myself would not ask you to stay."