ould speak now. We will teach him
soon."

As he ceased speaking, fatigued by the unaccustomed effort, I heard low
strains of music echoing through the silent halls around us. A violin!
The tone was deep and tremulous, gradually growing louder, filling the
ear with its message, and lifting the mind to lofty heights of thought
and passion. We both sat listening for hours, and midnight came before
the last strain died away. That music was like a strange story that
drops its plummet deep into life's mysteries.

"A new song!" said my uncle, turning to me with surprise on his face.
"He got the subject from you. We shall see."

Presently Rayel entered the room, bringing something in his hand--a
picture--which he held up to the lamplight. A girl's face! and
wonderfully like that of Hester Chaffin. I sat amazed, staring at it.
But the likeness was not exact, the face was idealized--as I had seen it
in my dream the night before. I raised my eyes to Rayel's face. He was
looking at me with an expression of pain and embarrassment.

CHAPTER V

My uncle recovered the power of speech rapidly. Before I had been a week
in his house he was able to talk with comparative ease. He seemed to
enjoy my companionship, and I spent most of my time in his library,
conversing with him or conning the musty books that had long lain
unread. To me this room was a fascinating and restful place. Somehow
it reminded me of an old cemetery. The time-worn books upon its shelves
stood in solemn rows, like headstones, sacred to the memory of the men
who wrote them--their titles like inscriptions half obliterated. I did
not see Rayel for days after the midnight episode that gave me such a
startling revelation of his power.

"Do you think that Rayel knows everything that passes in one's mind--a
vivid dream, for instance?" I asked my uncle one day when we were alone
together.

Yes, except when he is himself asleep. His command of my dreams puzzled
me at first. I thought I had put the past completely out of my mind. But
I could not hide it from him. Little by little he learned everything in
my history. One day I saw him at work on a picture. It startled me.
The canvas showed a man lying on a surgeon's table. The knife had just
severed an artery in his thigh. There were four men working over him--I
was one of them. Gradually the features took on a familiar expression.
His face grew paler under the brush. A few touches--the scene was
complete. The man