l ringing with the morning hymn of joy. What were
these harsh voices saying?

"They think she'll live now?"

"Yes, she'll pull through, unless she frets herself bad again about
Jacques. Nobody'd heerd a word of him when I come away."

"Been out all night, has he?"

"Yes! went away without saying anything to her or anybody, far as I can
make out. Been gone since yesterday afternoon, and some say--" The
voices died away, and then the footsteps, and silence fell once more.

CHAPTER XI.

VITA NUOVA.

De Arthenay never knew how he reached home that day. The spot where he
had been lying was several miles from the white cottage, yet he was
conscious of no time, no distance. It seemed one burning moment, a
moment never to be forgotten while he lived, till he found himself at
the foot of the outer stairway, the stair that led to the attic. She
might still be living, and he would not go to her without the thing she
craved, the thing which could speak to her in the voice she understood.

Again a moment of half-consciousness, and he was standing in the
doorway of her bedroom, looking in with blind eyes of dread. What
should he see? what still form might break the outline of that white
bed which she always kept so smooth and trim?

The silence cried out to him with a thousand voices, threatening,
condemning, blasting; but the next moment it was broken.

"Mon ami!" said Marie. The words were faint, but there was a tone in
them that had never been there before. "Jacques, mon ami, you are
here! You did not go to leave me?"

The mist cleared from the man's eyes. He did not see Abby Rock,
sitting by the bed, crying with joyful indignation; if he had seen her,
it would not have been in the least strange for her to be there. He
saw nothing--the world held nothing--but the face that looked at him
from the pillow, the pale face, all soft and worn, yet full of light,
full--was it true, or was he dreaming in the wood?--of love, of joy.

"Come in, Jacques!" said Abby, wondering at the look of the man.
"Don't make a noise, but come in and sit down!"

De Arthenay did not move, but held out the violin in both hands with a
strange gesture of submission.

"I have brought it, Mary!" he said. "You shall always have it now.
I--I have learned a little--I know a little, now, of what it means. I
hadn't understanding before, Mary. I meant no unkindness to you."

Abby laughed softly. "Jacques De Arthenay, come here!"