"See there!" he said, as the tribe set him down, "You have frightened the

populace." And Tom Meredith stopped shouting long enough to answer, "It's

my little cousin, overcome with emotion. She's been counting the hours

till you came--been hearing of you from me and others for a good while;

and hasn't been able to talk or think of anything else. She's only

fifteen, and the crucial moment is too much for her--the Great Harkless

has arrived, and she has fled."

He remembered other incidents of his greatness, of the glory that now

struck him as rarely comical; be hoped he hadn't taken it too seriously

then, in the flush of his youth. Maybe, after all, he had been a, big-

headed boy, but he must have bottled up his conceit tightly enough, or the

other boys would have detected it and abhorred him. He was inclined to

believe that he had not been very much set up by the pomp they made for

him. At all events, that day at Winter Harbor had been beautiful, full of

the laughter of friends and music; for there was a musicale at the Casino

in the afternoon.

But the present hour grew on him as he leaned on the pasture bars, and

suddenly his memories sped; and the voice that was singing Schubert's

serenade across the way touched him with the urgent, personal appeal that

a present beauty always had for him. It was a soprano; and without

tremolo, yet came to his ear with a certain tremulous sweetness; it was

soft and slender, but the listener knew it could be lifted with fullness

and power if the singer would. It spoke only of the song, yet the listener

thought of the singer. Under the moon thoughts run into dreams, and he

dreamed that the owner of the voice, she who quoted "The Walrus and the

Carpenter" on Fisbee's notes, was one to laugh with you and weep with you;

yet her laughter would be tempered with sorrow, and her tears with

laughter.

When the song was ended, he struck the rail he leaned upon a sharp blow

with his open hand. There swept over him a feeling that he had stood

precisely where he stood now, on such a night, a thousand years ago, had

heard that voice and that song, had listened and been moved by the song,

and the night, just as he was moved now.

He had long known himself for a sentimentalist; he had almost given up

trying to cure himself. And he knew himself for a born lover; he had

always been in love with some one. In his earlier youth his affections had

been so constantly inconstant that he finally came to settle with his

self-respect by recognizing in himself a fine constancy that worshipped

one woman always--it was only the shifting image of her that changed!

Somewhere (he dreamed, whimsically indulgent of the fancy; yet mocking

himself for it) there was a girl whom he had never seen, who waited till

he should come. She was Everything. Until he found her, he could not help

adoring others who possessed little pieces and suggestions of her--her

brilliancy, her courage, her short upper lip, "like a curled roseleaf," or

her dear voice, or her pure profile. He had no recollection of any lady

who had quite her eyes.




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