At the Time Appointed

He paused at the doorway, feeling decidedly out of place, and glanced

about him with a serio-comic smile. The furnishings were as unique as

possible, no one piece in the room bearing any relation or similarity to

any other piece. There were chairs and tables of wicker-work, twisted

into the most ornate designs, interspersed among heavy, antique pieces

of carving and slender specimens of colonial simplicity; divans covered

with pillows of every delicate shade imaginable; exquisite etchings and

dainty bric-à-brac. In an alcove formed by a large bay-window stood a

writing-desk of ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and on an easel in a

secluded corner, partially concealed by silken draperies, was the

portrait of Kate Underwood,--a childish, rather immature face, but with

a mouth indicating both sweetness and strength of character, and with

dark, strangely appealing eyes.

The walls of both rooms were lined with bookcases, but their contents

were widely diverse, and, to Darrell's surprise, he found the young

girl's library contained far the better class of books. But even in

their selection he observed the same peculiarity that he had noted in

the furnishing of the room; there were few complete sets of books;

instead, there were one, two, or three volumes of each author, as the

case might be, evidently her especial favorites.

But Darrell returned to the other room, which interested him far more,

each article in it bearing eloquent testimony to the happy young life

of whose tragic end he had now often heard, but of which he was unable

to recall the faintest memory. Passing slowly through the room, his

attention was caught by a violin case standing in an out-of-the-way

corner. With a cry of joy he drew it forth, his fingers trembling with

eagerness as he opened it and took therefrom a genuine Stradivarius. At

that moment his happiness knew no bounds. Seating himself and bending

his head over the instrument after the manner of a true violin lover, he

drew the bow gently across the strings, producing a chord of such

triumphant sweetness that the air seemed vibrating with the joy which at

that instant thrilled his own soul.

Immediately all thought of himself or of his surroundings was lost. With

eyes half closed and dreamy he began to play, without effort, almost

mechanically, but with the deft touch of a master hand, while liquid

harmonies filled the room, quivering, rising, falling; at times low,

plaintive, despairing; then swelling exultantly, only to die away in

tremulous, minor undertones. The man's pent-up feelings had at last

found expression,--his alternate hope and despair, his unutterable

loneliness and longing,--all voiced by the violin.

Of the lapse of time Darrell had neither thought nor consciousness until

the door opened and Mrs. Dean's calm smile and matter-of-fact voice

recalled him to a material world.

"I see that you have found Harry's violin," she said.