no sorrow near us. It’s all far away.”

Thus, sometimes she would throw off all the habitual reserve of her manner and open her heart to him, following the rich impulses of her nature to their glorious revelation.

“Now, David, sit here and play; play your flute as you did that first time when I learned who made the music that I thought must be the ‘Voices,’ that time I climbed up to see.”

They sat under the great cedars on a bank of moss, and David took the flute from her hand, smiling as he thought of that moment when he had stood among the blossoming laurel and watched her as she moved about his cabin, the day before his hurt, and how she had kissed it.

“I used to sit here like this.”