d her weak human longing.

Tommy's eyes had closed, and the low music went on and on. The room was
now quite dark, save for the light that encircled Joyselle's head. It
was like a wonderful picture, and the innate nobility of the man
obliterated for the time all else from his fine face.

Tommy was asleep, and still the music went on.

"_Salut demeure chaste et pure_," he was playing now, and Brigit
recalled with a great heart throb the evening she had met him in the
train. "_Salut demeure_----" The high note, pure and thrilling, lingered
long, and then, as it had come, the light went, and it was dark.

The music ceased, and there was a long pause. Then, without a word,
Joyselle left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The morning of the fifth day after his arrival Joyselle went downstairs
early, and out into the garden.

He looked, as he felt, very tired, for he had been with Tommy most of
the time, day and night, and played until even his great strength was
nearly exhausted.

For Tommy had clung to his presence in a very piteous way, crying
weakly, since the fever had gone, every time the Master left the room,
restless and unable to sleep unless played to, capricious and naughty
about his food unless the Master sat by him while he ate.

Many children are disquietingly good during serious illness, and Tommy
had been very patient while at his worst; but once on the road to
recovery, the natural imp in him revived and flourished, making the road
a hard one for his fellow-travellers.

There had been a phase when he smuggled his food under the bedclothes,
pretending with diabolical cleverness to eat it; when the milk left by
his side was poured out of the window the moment he had been left alone.
But Joyselle, discovering these crimes, had taken to sitting by the boy
when his meals were brought, and with him Tommy was almost painfully
eager to be good.

The danger, Dr. Long declared, was now over, and within a week the
invalid was to be moved to Margate.

In a few hours Joyselle was returning to town, and he was glad, for the
strains, more than one, to which his stay had subjected him, were
telling on his nerves.

The rose-garden, even in mid-September, was a pleasant place, and as he
walked along its broad grass paths the violinist wished it were July,
and that the fine standard roses might be in bloom. He loved flowers,
and with the curiously rapid assimilation of superfi