He left the train at the sleepy
little place known as "Holly Springs," and walked up the main road as
though he knew the way.
"Half a mile," he said to himself, "and a little brown house in the
woods with a brook singing in front of it. Ought to get to it pretty
soon."
The prattling brook was half asleep in its narrow channel, but the
gentle murmur was audible to one who stopped in the road to listen. It
did not cross the road, but turned away, frightened, from the dusty
highway of a modest civilisation, and went back into the woods, where it
met another brook and travelled to the river in company.
The house, just back of the singing stream, was a little place, as
Madame Bernard had said, but, though he rapped repeatedly, no one
answered. So he lifted the latch and cautiously stepped in.
A grand piano, unblushingly new, and evidently of recent importation
from the city, occupied most of the tiny living-room. The embers of a
wood fire lay on the hearth and the room was faintly scented with the
sweet smoke of hard pine. A well-known and well-worn sonata was on the
music rack; a volume of Chopin had fallen to the floor.
Pages:
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372