at answered his own mood and
expressed his own being.

Not all of them were sad music, in the strictest sense. But they were
all intense, poignant and tremulous with the deepest longings of the
human soul.

"I haven't any ragtime," the man explained humbly. "I could only bring
up a few records, and so I took just the ones I liked best. They're
simple things--I'm sorry I haven't any more."

She looked at this man with growing wonder. Of course he would like the
simple things. No man of her acquaintance had ever possessed truer
standards: no sophistication or cultural growth such as she herself had
know could have given him a truer gentility. What was this thing that
men could learn in the woods and in the North that gave them such poise,
such standards, and brought out such qualities of manhood? Yet she knew
that the forests did not treat all men alike. Those of intrinsic virtue
were made better, their strength was supplemented by the strength of the
wilderness itself, but the weaklings perished quickly. This was not a
land for soft men, for the weak and the cowardly and the vicious. The
wild soon found them out, harried them by storms and broke their hearts
and their spirits, and kept from them its gracious secrets. Perhaps in
this latter thing lay the explanation. It seemed to her that Bill was
always straining, listening for the faintest, whispered voices of the
forest about him. He was always watching, always studying--his soul
and his heart open--and Nature poured forth upon him her incalculable
rewards.

He put on a record, closed the doors of the instrument tight to muffle
the sound, and set the needle. She recognized the melody at once. It
was Drdla's "Souvenir"--and the first notes seemed to sweep her into
infinity.

It was a beautiful, haunting thing, sweet as love, warm as a maiden's
heart, tender as motherhood; and all at once Virginia was aware of a
heart-stirring and incredible contrast. The melody did not drown out
the sound of the storm. It rose above it, infinitely sweet and
entreating, and all the time the wild strains of the storm outside made
a strange and dreadful background. Yet the two songs mingled with such
harmony as only old masters, devotees to music, can sometimes hear in
their inmost souls but never express in notes.

She felt the tears start in her eyes. Her cheeks flamed. Her heart
raced and thrilled. For all the exquisite beauty of the song, a vague
dread and