the strings. There seemed to rush into her heart with the sound a great sorrow, a vast, poignant longing for some precious thing taken away forever. It was as if night had brought a sorrow which day could not again purge away. Tears burst from her eyes in copious overflowing; a sob rose clamoring for utterance, like a wail for the dead.
Nearing was knocking at her door. In wheedling, ingratiating, humble tones of one who had given offense and craved forgiveness which he neither merited nor expected, he asked to see her. She sprang up, shocked by the strange quality of his voice, and opened the door.
"Uncle Hal! For heaven's sake tell me what has happened!" she appealed.
"Now, now! It's all right, it's all right," he said, with fatuous soothing. "It's nothing but a little matter of business, Alma."
He seemed weak, unsteady on his feet, which he shuffled like a very old man. She took his arm, smitten to the heart with a feeling of compassion that outweighed all the blame she could find in her conscience to charge to this wreck of the strong, handsome man she once knew.
"Wait till I make a light, Uncle Hal, it's so dark tonight."
"Dark tonight—God! Dark!" he muttered. Then, rousing as a drowning man plucks resolution to fight the current that is sweeping him away: "No, don't make a light, we'll not need a light. Just a little matter of business we can discuss in the dark."
