to have the sticks for lame
walking,--what you call--the crutch? Yes. I have for so long time
spoken only the Polish that I forget me greatly the English. You must
talk to me much, and make me reproof of my mistakes. Do you know for
why I like the crutch? It is that I would go each day--many times to
see the water fall down. Ah, how that is beautiful! In the sun, or
early in the morning, or in the night, always beautiful!"

"You shall have the crutches, Amalia, and until I get them made, I
will carry you to the fall each day. Come, I will take you there now.
I will wrap these furs around you, and you shall see the fall in the
evening light."

"No, 'Arry King. To-morrow I will try to ride on the horse if you will
lift me up on him. I will let you do this. But you may not carry me as
you have done. I am now so strong. You may make me the crutch, yes."
Of all things he wished her to let him carry her to the fall, but her
refusal was final, and he set about making the crutches immediately.

Through the evening he worked on them, and at nightfall the next day
he brought them to her. As he came down from his shed, carrying the
crutches proudly, he heard sweet, quavering tones in the air wafted
intermittently. The wind was still, and through the evening hush the
tones strengthened as he drew nearer the cabin, until they seemed to
wrap him in a net of interwoven cadences and fine-spun threads of
quivering melody--a net of sound, inclosing his spirit in its
intricate mesh of sweetness.

He paused and breathed deeply, and turned this way and that, as if he
would escape but found no way; then he walked slowly on. At the door
of the cabin he paused again. The firelight shone through from
underneath, and a fine thread of golden light sifted through the latch
of the door and fell on the hand that held Amalia's crutches. He
looked down on the spot of light dancing over his hand as if he were
dazed by it. Very gently he laid the crutches across the threshold,
and for a long time stood without, listening, his head bowed as if he
were praying.

It was her father's violin, the one she had wept at leaving behind
her. What was she playing? Strange, old-world melodies they seemed,
tossed into the air, now laughing, now wailing like sorrowing women
voices. Oh, the violin in her hands! Oh, the rapture of hearing it, as
her soul vibrated through it and called to him--called to him!--But he
would not hear the call. He turned sorrowfully a