of the Fraeulein. Her dislike of him abated only when he
and Iris made her the hideous paper butterfly which illuminated a
corner. A flash of memory took him back to the day they made it, alone,
in the big dining-room. He saw the sweet seriousness in the girl's face
as she glued on the antennae, having chosen proper bits of an old ostrich
feather for the purpose.

And now, the dining-room was empty, save of the haunting shadows. Aunt
Peace was at rest in the churchyard, the fever at an end, and Iris--Iris
had gone, leaving desolation in her wake.

Only the butterfly remained--the flimsy, fragile thing that any passing
wind might easily have destroyed. The finer things of the spirit, that
are supposed to be permanent, had vanished. In their place, there was
only a heartache, which waxed greater as the days went by, and through
the long nights which brought no surcease of pain.

In the beginning, Lynn had felt himself absolutely alone. Now he began
to perceive that he had been taken into an invisible brotherhood. He was
like one in a crowded playhouse when the lights go out, isolated to all
intents and purposes, and yet conscious that others are near him,
sharing his emotions.

The thunders boomed across the valley and the lightnings rived the
clouds. The grey rain swirled against the windows and the house swayed
in the wind. Then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, the storm ceased,
and Lynn smiled.

Diamonds dripped from every twig, and the grass was full of them. The
laughter of happy children came to his ears, and a rainbow of living
light spanned the valley. Its floating draperies overhung the topmost
branches of the trees on the crest of the opposite hill, and picked out
here and there a jewel--a ruby, an opal, or an emerald, set in the
silvered framework of the leaves.

Lynn sighed heavily, for the beauty of it sent the old, remorseless pain
to surging through his heart. The Master's violin lay on the piano near
him, and he took it up, noting only that it was not the Cremona.

As his fingers touched the strings, there came a sense of familiarity
with the instrument, as one who meets a friend after a long separation.
He tightened the strings, picked up the bow, and began to play.

It was the adagio movement of the concerto--the one which Herr Kaufmann
had said was full of heartache and tears. In all the literature of
music, there was nothing so well suited to his mood.

He stood with his face to the windo