e wall and play something for me," she said
imperiously. "I'm dying--and I'm going to hell--and I don't want to
think of it. Play me something to take my thoughts off it--I don't care
what you play. I was always fond of music--there was always something in
it for me I never found anywhere else."

Felix looked at his grandfather. The old man nodded, he felt too ashamed
to speak; he sat with his fine silver head in his hands, while Felix
took down and tuned the old violin, on which so many godless lilts had
been played in many a wild revel. Mr. Leonard felt that he had failed
his religion. He could not give Naomi the help that was in it for her.

Felix drew the bow softly, perplexedly over the strings. He had no
idea what he should play. Then his eyes were caught and held by Naomi's
burning, mesmeric, blue gaze as she lay on her crumpled pillow. A
strange, inspired look came over the boy's face. He began to play as if
it were not he who played, but some mightier power, of which he was but
the passive instrument.

Sweet and soft and wonderful was the music that stole through the
room. Mr. Leonard forgot his heartbreak and listened to it in puzzled
amazement. He had never heard anything like it before. How could the
child play like that? He looked at Naomi and marvelled at the change
in her face. The fear and frenzy were going out of it; she listened
breathlessly, never taking her eyes from Felix. At the foot of the bed
the idiot girl sat with tears on her cheeks.

In that strange music was the joy of the innocent, mirthful childhood,
blent with the laughter of waves and the call of glad winds. Then it
held the wild, wayward dreams of youth, sweet and pure in all their
wildness and waywardness. They were followed by a rapture of young
love--all-surrendering, all-sacrificing love. The music changed. It
held the torture of unshed tears, the anguish of a heart deceived and
desolate. Mr. Leonard almost put his hands over his ears to shut out its
intolerable poignancy. But on the dying woman's face was only a strange
relief, as if some dumb, long-hidden pain had at last won to the healing
of utterance.

The sullen indifference of despair came next, the bitterness of
smouldering revolt and misery, the reckless casting away of all good.
There was something indescribably evil in the music now--so evil that
Mr. Leonard's white soul shuddered away in loathing, and Maggie cowered
and whined like a frightened animal.

Again the