Old enough to be her grandfather, too, the old----" His companion stopped him, dropping a hand on his shoulder.
"Listen!" They were at the corner of the Briscoe picket fence, and a sound lilted through the stillness--a touch on the keys that Harkless knew.

"Listen," he whispered.
It was the "Moonlight Sonata" that Helen was playing.

"It's a pretty piece," observed Lige after a time.

John could have choked him, but he answered: "Yes, it is seraphic." "Who made it up ?" pursued Mr.Willetts.
"Beethoven." "Foreigner, I expect.

Yet in some way or another makes me think of fishing down on the Wabash bend in Vigo, and camping out nights like this; it's a mighty pretty country around there--especially at night." The sonata was finished, and then she sang--sang the "Angel's Serenade." As the soft soprano lifted and fell in the modulations of that song there was in its timbre, apart from the pure, amber music of it, a questing, seeking pathos, and Willetts felt the hand on his shoulder tighten and then relax; and, as the song ended, he saw that his companion's eyes were shining and moist..