The Choir Invisible

"And this is why you never came to see me." He had sprung up like a man made

well, and was holding Peter's hand and looking reproachfully into his eyes.

"I'd have seen you dead first," cried Peter gaily, giving him a mighty slap

on the shoulder. "But wait! O'Bannon's not the only man who can play a

joke!"

John hurriedly left the shop with a gesture which Peter did not understand.

The web of deceptive circumstances that had been spun about him had been

brushed away at last: he saw the whole truth now--saw his own blindness,

blundering, folly, injustice.

He was on his way to Amy already.

When he had started out, he had thought he should walk around a little and

then lie down again. Now with his powerful stride come back to him, he had

soon passed the last house of the town and was nearing the edge of the

wilderness. He took the same straight short course of the afternoon on which

he had asked Mrs. Falconer's consent to his suit. As he hurried on, it

seemed to him a long time since then! What experiences he had undergone!

What had he not suffered! How he was changed!

"Yes," he said over and over to himself, putting away all other thoughts in

a resolve to think of this nearest duty only. "If I've been unkind to her,

if I've been wrong, have I not suffered?"

He had not gone far before his strength began to fail. He was forced to sit

down and rest. It was near sundown when he reached the clearing.

"At last!" he said gratefully, with his old triumphant habit of carrying out

whatever he undertook. He had put out all his strength to get there.

He passed the nearest field--the peach trees--the garden--and took the path

toward the house.

"Where shall I find her?" he thought. "Where can I see her alone?"

"Between him and the house stood a building of logs and plaster. It was a

single room used for the spinning and the weaving of which she had charge.

Many a time he had lain on the great oaken chest into which the homespun

cloth was stored while she sat by her spinning-wheel; many a talk they had

had there together, many a parting; and many a Saturday twilight he had put

his arms around her there and turned away for his lonely walk to town,

planning their future. "If she should only be in the weaving-room!"

He stepped softly to the door and looked in. She was there-- standing near

the middle of the room with her face turned from him. The work of the day

was done. On one side were the spinning-wheels, farther on a loom; before

her a table on which the cloth was piled ready to be folded away; on the

other the great open chest into which she was about to store it. She had

paused in revery, her hands clasped behind her head.