"I have been thinking," he went on, after a little, "what a difference
one little hour can make, a minute, even. Once I had everything--youth,
health, strength, a happy home, love, a dear father, and every promise
of success in my chosen career. Now I'm old and broken; health,
strength, and love have been taken away in an instant, my father is
gone, and my career is only an empty memory. I have no violin, and, if I
had, what use would it be to me without--why Rose, I haven't even
fingers to make the notes nor hands to hold it."
Rose could bear no more. She sprang to her feet with arms outstretched,
all her love and longing swelling into infinite appeal. "Oh Boy!" she
cried, "take mine! Take my hands, for always!"
For a tense instant they faced each other. Her breast rose and fell with
every quick breath; her eyes met his, then faltered, and the crimson of
shame mantled her white face.
"Oh," she breathed, painfully, and turned away from him. When she was
half way to the door, he called to her. "Rose! Dear Rose!"
She hesitated, her hand upon the knob. "Close the door and come back,"
he pleaded.
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