t had been painted a pale gray with white
trimmings, but now it was a dingy, hopeless color that defied
description. A child's dilapidated tricycle stood on the rickety porch,
which was approached by a flight of three unstable-looking steps.

Her mind centered upon her errand, Marjorie paid small attention to her
surroundings. She bounded up the steps, searching with alert eyes for a
bell. Finding none she doubled her fist to knock, but paused suddenly
with upraised arm. From within the house came the vibrant notes of a
violin mingled with the soft accompaniment of a piano.

"Schubert's 'Serenade,'" breathed Marjorie, delightedly, lowering her
arm. "I simply must listen."

Suddenly a voice took up the plaintive strain. It was so high and sweet
and clear that the listener caught her breath in sheer amazement.

She stood spellbound, while the wonderful voice sang on and on to the
last note of the exquisite "Serenade" that seemed to end in a long-drawn
sigh.

Marjorie knocked lightly, but no one responded.

The singer had begun again. This time it was Nevin's "Oh That We Two
Were Maying."

She listened again; then, to her surprise, the door was gently opened.
Before her stood the tiny figure of a boy whose great black eyes looked
curiously into hers. Laying his finger upon his lips, he gravely
motioned with his other hand for her to enter. Then as he limped away
from the door Marjorie saw he was a cripple.

Marjorie stepped noiselessly into the room, her eyes on the piano. A man
was seated before it. She could not see his face, but she noted that he
had an enormous shock of snow-white hair. At one side of him stood
another old man, his thin cheek resting lovingly against his violin, his
whole soul intent upon the flood of melody he was bringing forth, while
on the other side of the pianist, her quiet face fairly transfigured
stood Constance, pouring out her very heart in song.

CHAPTER XVI

THE PEOPLE OF THE LITTLE GRAY HOUSE

Intent upon their music, neither the singer nor the two men were
immediately aware of the presence of another person in the room.

"Oh, that we two were lying
Under the churchyard sod,"

sang Constance, voicing the pent-up longing of Kingsley's tenderly
regretful words and Nevin's wistful setting, while the violin sang a
subdued, pensive obligato.

Marjorie stood very still, her gaze fastened upon Constance. The quaint
little boy stared at Marjorie with an equally in