added with a sneer. "Word for
word, it's the tale of Cinderella."

"The pattern for Cinderella!" corrected Kenny with a shrug.

Adam Craig glanced at him with narrowed eyes.

"And Finn McCoul and the bathing queen. I can find you the German tale
of a stolen veil from which it's--borrowed."

"You can find me likely the name of a German who chose to delve into
Gaelic for his plot."

"You've a ready tongue."

"There are times when it's needed."

"As for the first harp," snapped Adam Craig, nettled, "there's a
Grecian lyre tale yonder on the shelf like it."

"Liar tale," said Kenny purposely misunderstanding. Hum! The Greeks,
he remembered regretfully, were clever adapters.

His air of assurance incensed the old man.

"As for that fool of a Cuchullin," he rasped, coughing a little, "where
is he different from Achilles?"

"A little different," said Kenny. "Achilles, poor old scout, was much
the inferior of the two."

Again in fury Adam Craig coughed until it seemed that his life must
end. Again he drank. Kenny knew by the flurried brightness of his
eyes sunk deep in the yellowed gauntness of his face that he was drunk.
He shuddered and rose. Already the old man's head was drooping toward
his chest in a drunken stupor. With an effort he roused and leered.

"Cinderella, damn you!" he said. "Cinderella and Achilles!"

"Cinderella," repeated Kenny pityingly. "Cinderella and Achilles."

He stood uncertain what to do while Adam Craig slipped down in his
chair. Drunk, perverse and cruel! With the rain beating at the
windows Kenny thought of Joan, compassion in his heart, and rang for
Hughie.

"I--I'm afraid he's drunk," he whispered with a sense of guilt when
Hughie came. "Perhaps I shouldn't have given him the bottle."

Hughie glanced at his watch.

"It's nine o'clock," he said. "He's late."

"You mean?"

"Every night," said Hughie. "The doctor gave up fightin' long ago."

Kenny went to his room filled with pity and disgust.

Gusts of wind and rain battered at the orchard blossoms the next day
and the next. Kenny found a tuning outfit in a closet and spent his
days with Joan tuning the Craig piano. He was grateful in the gloom of
dark wood and dust for the fantastic thing of lavender she wore. It
was like a bit of iris in a bog, he told her, and was sorry when he saw
her glance with troubled eyes at the dust and cobwebs.

The river ran high and brown. The horn beneath the willow wa