"Yes, three or four years; but not like this. It beats me! He's all

upset over Miss Sherwood, I think. Old enough to be her grandfather, too,

the old----"

His companion stopped him, dropping a hand on his shoulder.

"Listen!"

They were at the corner of the Briscoe picket fence, and a sound lilted

through the stillness--a touch on the keys that Harkless knew. "Listen,"

he whispered.

It was the "Moonlight Sonata" that Helen was playing. "It's a pretty

piece," observed Lige after a time. John could have choked him, but he

answered: "Yes, it is seraphic."

"Who made it up?" pursued Mr. Willetts.

"Beethoven."

"Foreigner, I expect. Yet in some way or another makes me think of fishing

down on the Wabash bend in Vigo, and camping out nights like this; it's a

mighty pretty country around there--especially at night."

The sonata was finished, and then she sang--sang the "Angel's Serenade."

As the soft soprano lifted and fell in the modulations of that song there

was in its timbre, apart from the pure, amber music of it, a questing,

seeking pathos, and Willetts felt the hand on his shoulder tighten and

then relax; and, as the song ended, he saw that his companion's eyes were

shining and moist.




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