r, Melody, or one who spoke to me more plain in silence, her
spirit answering to the music till I almost could hear the sound of it.
Feeling this, I let myself slip into the bow, as it were, more than I
was aware of; and presently forgot her, or next thing to it, and was
away in the rose-garden of Chateau Claire, and saw the blue eyes that
held all heaven in them, and heard the voice that made my music harsh.
And when at last I brought it down to a whisper, seeing the young
woman's eyes shut, and thinking she might be asleep, she looked up at
me, bright and sharp, and said, "You, too?"

I never saw her again, and indeed think she had not long to live. But it
is an instance, my dear, of what a person can do, if the heart within
him is tender to the sorrows of others.

After Abby's death,--but that was years after all this,--I found it wise
to leave my native village. I will not go into the cause of this, my
child, since it was a passing matter, or so I trusted. There was some
one there who had great good will to me, and, not knowing my story, may
have fancied that I was one who could make her happy; I thought it right
to tell her how I had fared, and then, she being in distress, I left my
home, and from that time, I may say, had many homes, yet none my own. I
have met with rare kindness; no man of my generation, I would wager, has
the number of friends I can boast, and all kind, all hearty, all ready
with a "welcome to Rosin the Beau." And now here, at your aunts' kind
wish and your prayer, my dearest Melody, dear as any child of my own
could be, I am come to spend my last days under your roof; and what
more could mortal man ask than this, I truly know not. My violin and
your voice, Melody; they were made for each other; everybody says that,
my dear, and neither you nor I would deny it. And when the _obligato_ is
silent, as shortly it must be in the good course of nature, it is my
prayer and hope that you will not miss me too much, my dear, but will go
on in joy and in cheer, shedding light about you, and with your own
darkness yielding a clear glory of kindness and happiness. Do not grieve
for the old man, Melody, when the day comes for him to lay down the
fiddle and the bow. I am old, and it is many years that Valerie has been
dead, and Yvon, too, and all of them; and happy as I am, my dear, I am
sometimes tired, and ready for rest. And for more than rest, I trust and
believe; for new life, new strength, new work, as G