puissant enough to turn back and blot out all that had been told him.
“It’s not his!” he cried. And reaching out fiercely he dragged the ’cello away from the coffin’s side. He stood for an instant at bay, bitter, defiant.
“It’s not his! It’s mine! It’s—it’s—ours!”
And then he fled out into the dark of the entrance-hall and up the black stairs. In his room there was no moonlight now, for the cloud ran over the sky and the rain had come.
“It isn’t so, it isn’t so!” It was like a sob in his throat.
He struck on the full strings. And listening breathless through the dying discord he heard the liquid whispers of the rain, nothing more. He lashed with a wild bow, time and again. But something was broken, something was lost: out of the surf of sound he could no longer fashion the measure of marching feet. The mad Kains had found him out, and cast him out. No longer could he dream them in dreams or run naked-hearted with them in the flood of the moon, for he was no blood of theirs, and they were gone. And huddling down on the edge of the bed, he wept.
The tears washed his eyes and falling down bathed his strengthless hands. And beyond the phantom windows, over the marsh and the moor and the hill that were not his, the graves of strangers and the lost Willow Wood, lay the healing rain. He heard it in gurgling rivulets along the gutters overhead. He heard the soft impact, like a kiss, brushing the reedy cheeks of the marsh, the showery shouldering of branches, the aspiration of myriad drinking grasses, the far whisper of waters coming home to the waters of the sea—the long, low melody of the rain.
And by and by he found it was “Ugo,” the ’cello, and he was playing.
They went home the following afternoon, he and his mother. Or rather, she went home, and he with her as far as the Junction, where he changed for school.
They had not much to say to each other through the journey. The boy had to be given time. Five years
