The sounds that sprinkled the general stillness were in themselves sleepy notes of the pervasive music of somnolent nature--the sough of the pine at the door, the murmur of insect life, the low, thudding beat of the steam-thresher out of sight hard by, the purring of the cat in the arms of Kitty Tynan as, with fascinated eyes, she listened to a man tell the tale of a life as distant from that which she lived as she was from Eve.
She felt more awed than curious as the tale went on; it even seemed to her she was listening to a theme beyond her sphere, like some shameless eavesdropper at the curtains of a secret ceremonial.

Once or twice she looked at her mother and at the Young Doctor, as though to reassure herself that she was not a vulgar intruder.

It was far more impressive to her, and to the Young Doctor too, than the scene at the Logan Trial when a man was sentenced to death.

It was strangely magnetic, this tale of a man's existence; and the clock which sounded so loud on the mantelpiece, as it mechanically ticked off the time, seemed only part of some mysterious machinery of life.

Once a dove swept down upon the window-sill, and, peering in, filled one of the pauses in the recital with its deep contralto note, and then fled like a small blue cloud into the wide and--as it seemed--everlasting peace beyond the doorway.
There was nothing at all between themselves and the far sky-line save little clumps of trees here and there, little clusters of buildings and houses--no visible animal life.