There came also the twinkle of lanterns borne by hurrying hands, and the tramp of shuffling feet.

In the window David shivered.

There were no wide sweep of mountain, hill, and valley, no Silver Lake, no restful hush, no daddy,--no beautiful Things that Were.

There was only the dreary, hollow mockery of the Things they had Become.
Long minutes later, David, with the violin in his arms, lay down upon the rug, and, for the first time since babyhood, sobbed himself to sleep--but it was a sleep that brought no rest; for in it he dreamed that he was a big, white-winged moth pinned with a star to an ink-black sky..