Mellowness and a sober sweetness were in the tone.

He paused a moment after this, and seemed questioning what to play.

And as he stood, the flute in his hands, his thoughts took flight to his Uncle Benn, whose kindly, shrewd face and sharp brown eyes were as present to him, and more real, than those of Luke Claridge, whom he saw every day.

Of late when he had thought of his uncle, however, alternate depression and lightness of spirit had possessed him.

Night after night he had troubled sleep, and he had dreamed again and again that his uncle knocked at his door, or came and stood beside his bed and spoke to him.