walked on. He wished he might feel her fingers close warmly about his own, but no, they were cold. She seemed wholly withdrawn from him, and her face bore the look of one who was walking in her sleep, yet he knew her to be awake.

“Miss Cassandra, speak to me,” he begged, in quiet tones. “Don’t walk away until you tell me why you came.”

She seemed then to become aware that he was holding her by the hand and withdrew it, and in the faint light he thought she smiled. “It was just foolishness. You will laugh at me. I heard the music, and I thought it might be — you made it I reckon, but down there it sounded like it might be the ‘Voices.’ You remember how they came to Joan of Arc, like we were reading last week?” She began to walk on more hurriedly.