He was sitting before the easel, staring at the blank canvas, when, clear and sweet, from the depths of the orange grove, came the pure tones of Sibyl Andres' violin.
So soft and low was the music, at first, that the artist almost doubted that it was real, thinking--as he had thought that day when Sibyl came singing to the glade--that it was his fancy tricking him.

When he and Conrad Lagrange left the mountains three days before, the girl and her companion had not expected to return to Fairlands for at least two weeks.
But there was no mistaking that music of the hills.

As the tones grew louder and more insistent, with a ringing note of gladness, he knew that the mountain girl was announcing her arrival and, in the language she loved best, was greeting her friends.
But so strangely selfish is the heart of man, that Aaron King gave the novelist no share in their neighbor's musical greeting.

He received the message as if it were to himself alone.

As he listened, his eyes brightened; he stood erect, his face turned upward toward the mountain peaks in the distance; his lips curved in a slow smile.