labor never done; who must hold always with sorrowing heart and clinging hands to the soul of a murderer — hold and cling, if haply she might save — and weep for that which, for her, might never be? Were they bringing hope that she might yet live gladly as the birds live; that she might go beyond that and live like those who have no sin imposed on them, to walk with the gods, she knew not how, but to rise to things beyond her ken?

Down came the notes, sweet, shrill, white notes, — hurrying, drifting, lingering, calling her to follow; down on her heart with healing and comfort they fell, lightly as dew on flowers, sparkling with life, joy-giving and pure.

Slowly she began climbing, listening, waiting, one step upward after another, following the sound. As if in a trance