"Yes, three or four years; but not like this. It beats me! He's all
upset over Miss Sherwood, I think. Old enough to be her grandfather, too,
the old----"
His companion stopped him, dropping a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen!"
They were at the corner of the Briscoe picket fence, and a sound lilted
through the stillness--a touch on the keys that Harkless knew. "Listen,"
he whispered.
It was the "Moonlight Sonata" that Helen was playing. "It's a pretty
piece," observed Lige after a time. John could have choked him, but he
answered: "Yes, it is seraphic."
"Who made it up?" pursued Mr. Willetts.
"Beethoven."
"Foreigner, I expect. Yet in some way or another makes me think of fishing
down on the Wabash bend in Vigo, and camping out nights like this; it's a
mighty pretty country around there--especially at night."
The sonata was finished, and then she sang--sang the "Angel's Serenade."
As the soft soprano lifted and fell in the modulations of that song there
was in its timbre, apart from the pure, amber music of it, a questing,
seeking pathos, and Willetts felt the hand on his shoulder tighten and
then relax; and, as the song ended, he saw that his companion's eyes were
shining and moist.