ily into delight at the sounds they
loved, and all her soul wept above all melodies and harmonies in her
ears. The spirit of an artist had Madelon, and could, had she wished,
have made the songs she sung; and for that very reason music could
never carry her away from her own self.

She finished her household tasks and sat down again to sew upon her
wedding-gown. After a while her father ceased playing, and leaned his
viol tenderly back in its corner, pulled on his great boots, put on
his leather jacket and his fur cap, lighted his pipe, shouldered his
gun, and set out with his eyes full of the abstraction of one who
follows alone a different path.

Chapter XVIII

Then Madelon sat alone, sewing, setting nice stitches in her
green-and-gold silk. Like other women, heretofore when she had sewn a
new gown she had builded for herself air-castles of innocent vanity
and love when she should be dressed in it. Now she builded no more,
but sat and sewed among the ruins of all her happy maiden fancies.
She had given herself no care concerning any other arrangements for
her wedding than this gown--she felt even no curiosity concerning it.
She left all that to Lot, as a victim leaves the details of his death
to the executioner. She supposed he would send for her and tell her
before long. When she heard a scraping step at the door she knew
instinctively that the message had come.

Margaret Bean's husband's simple old face confronted her when she
opened the door. The weather was moderating fast that morning. The
sun had the warmth of spring, and the old man stood in a shower of
rainbow drops from the melting icicles on the eaves. He handed her a
letter, backed clumsily and apologetically from under the drops, then
retreated carefully down the slippery path, his clumsy old joints
jolting.

Madelon, back in the kitchen, stood for a second looking at the
letter. Then she opened it, and read the message written in Lot
Gordon's strange poetic style:

"Madelon,--The rose waits in the garden for her lover, because he has
wings and she has none. But had the rose wings and her lover none,
then would she leave her garden and fly to him with her honey in her
heart, for love must be found.

"Lot Gordon."

Enough strength of New England blood Madelon had to feel towards Lot
a new impulse of scorn that he should write her thus, instead of
bidding her come, simply, like a man, displaying his power over her
that they both knew.