ed it. He
listened again. "He is fast asleep," he whispered. "I'll play the song
I always played for her--until," and the old man repeated the words of
the refrain:

"Fair as a lily, joyous and free,
Light of the prairie home was she;
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power
Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower."

He sat again in the arm-chair and placed the violin under his chin.
Tremulously he drew the bow across the middle string, his bloodless
fingers moving slowly up and down.

The theme he played was the melody to the verse he had just repeated,
but the expression was remorse.

* * *

Diotti sat upright in bed. "I am positive I heard a violin!" he said,
holding one hand toward his head in an attitude of listening. He was
wide awake. The drifting snow beat against the window panes and the
wind without shrieked like a thousand demons of the night. He could
sleep no more. He arose and hastily dressed. The room was bitterly
cold; he was shivering. He thought of the crackling logs in the
fire-place below. He groped his way along the darkened staircase. As
he opened the door leading into the sitting-room the fitful gleam of
the dying embers cast a ghastly light over the face of a corpse.

Diotti stood a moment, his eyes transfixed with horror. The violin and
bow still in the hands of the dead man told him plainer than words what
had happened. He went toward the chair, took the instrument from old
Sanders' hands and laid it on the table. Then he knelt beside the body,
and placing his ear close over the heart, listened for some sign of
life, but the old man was beyond human aid.

He wheeled the chair to the side of the room and moved the body to the
sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. The awfulness of the situation
forced itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed himself. The terrible
power of the instrument dawned upon him in all its force. Often he had
played on the strings telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but now, for
the first time, he realized what that fifth string meant.

"I must give it back to its owner."

"If you do you can never regain it," whispered a voice within.

"I do not need it," said the violinist, almost audibly.

"Perhaps not," said the voice, "but if her love should wane how would
you rekindle it? Without the violin you would be helpless."

"Is it not possible that, in this old man's death, all its fatal power
has been expended?"

He went to the tab