music, bewitches some of the noblest. The daws may peck upon one’s sleeve without injury, but whoever wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
This music and the musician called her, and at her side honor and the old love held her back.
“Forgive me,” he pleaded.
“Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you love,” she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
“How could I tell?” he begged. “I will conceal nothing from you. That night when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark street I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had struck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and jealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although you married him, Helen—”
“Who Are You?” cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her hand away.
“Don’t you remember me, Helen—the one who has always loved you the best? I am John Delaney. If you can forgive—”
But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for his in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed, cried and sang: “Frank! Frank! Frank!”
