"I wish you'd let me work with
you."
"I'll be glad to," Rose answered, with lips that scarcely moved.
"Will you help me work up my programs for next season?"
"Indeed I will. Don't stop now, please--really, I'm not tired."
While she was still protesting, he led her away from the piano to an
easy chair. "Sit there," he said, "and I'll do the work. Those
accompaniments are heavy."
He went back to his violin, tightened a string, and began to play,
alone. The melody was as delicate in structure as the instrument itself,
yet strangely full of longing. Slowly the violin gave back the music of
which it was made; the wind in the forest, the sound of many waters,
moonlight shimmering through green aisles of forest, the mating calls of
Spring. And again, through it all, surged some great question to which
Rose thrilled in unspoken answer; a great prayer, which, in some secret
way, she shared.
It came to an end at last when she felt that she could bear no more.
"What is it?" she forced herself to ask.
"I haven't named it," he replied, putting down his violin.
"Is--is it--yours?"
"Of course.
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