Mr. Lige Willetts, riding idly by, drew rein in front of the lighted
windows, and listened with the others. Presently he leaned from his horse
and whispered to a man near him: "I know that song."
"Do you?" whispered the other.
"Yes; he and I heard her sing it, the night he was shot."
"So!"
"Yes, sir. It's by Beethoven."
"Is it?"
"It's a seraphic song," continued Lige.
"No!" exclaimed his friend; then, shaking his head, he sighed: "Well, it's
mighty sweet."
The song was suddenly woven into laughter in the unseen chamber, and the
lights in the windows went out, and a small lady and a tall lady and a
thin old man, all three laughing and talking happily, came down and drove
off in the Briscoe buckboard. The little crowd dispersed quietly; Lige
Willetts plucked to his horse and cantered away to overtake the buckboard;
William Todd took his courage between his teeth, and, the song ringing in
his ears, made a desperate resolve to call upon Miss Bardlock that
evening, in spite of its being a week day, and Caleb Parker gently and
stammeringly asked Cynthia if she would wait till he shut up the shop, and
let him walk home with her and Bud.
Soon the Square was quiet as before, and there was naught but peace under
the big stars of July.
That day the news had come that Harkless, after weeks of alternate
improvement and relapse, hazardously lingering in the borderland of
shadows, had passed the crucial point and was convalescent. His recovery
was assured. But from their first word of him, from the message that he
was found and was alive, none of the people of Carlow had really doubted
it. They are simple country people, and they know that God is good.