for some time. The sheep broke their cluster, and began to straggle back to the upper side of the pen.
“Tong-tong, tong,” went the forlorn bell. The rain waxed louder.
Byrne was thinking of the previous week. He had gone to Helena’s home to read German with her as usual. She wanted to understand Wagner in his own language.
In each of the armchairs, reposing across the arms, was a violin-case. He had sat down on the edge of one seat in front of the sacred fiddle. Helena had come quickly and removed the violin.
“I shan’t knock it—it is all right,” he had said, protesting.
This was Siegmund’s violin, which Helena had managed to purchase, and Byrne was always ready to yield its precedence.
“It was all right,” he repeated.
“But you were not,” she had replied gently.
Since that time his heart had beat quick with excitement. Now he sat in a little storm of agitation, of which nothing was betrayed by his gloomy, pondering expression, but some of which was communicated to Helena by the increasing pressure of his hand, which adjusted itself delicately in a stronger and stronger stress over her fingers and palm. By some movement he became aware that her hand was uncomfortable. He relaxed. She sighed, as if restless and dissatisfied. She wondered what he was thinking of. He smiled quietly.
“The Babes in the Wood,” he teased.
Helena laughed, with a sound of tears. In the tree
