tones! Even he had understood some of them. There was one note that
was like his mother's voice when she lifted it up in the hymn she loved
best,--his gentle mother, dead so long, so long ago. She--why, she
loved music; he had forgotten that. But only psalms, only godly hymns,
never anything else.

What devil whispered in his ear, "She never heard anything else. She
would have loved this too, this too, if she had had the chance, if she
had heard Mary play!" He put his hands to his ears, and almost ran on.
Where was he going? He did not ask, did not think. He only knew that
it was a relief to be walking, to get farther and farther away from
what he loved and fain would cherish, from what he hated and would fain
destroy.

The grass grew long and rank under his feet; he stumbled, and paused
for a moment, out of breath, to look about him. He was in the old
burying-ground, the grey stones rearing their heads to peer at him as
he hurried on. Ah, there was one stone here that belonged to him. He
had not been in the place since he was a child; he cared nothing about
the dead of long ago: but now the memory of it all came back upon him,
and he sought and found the grey sunken stone, and pulled away the
grass from it, and read the legend with eyes that scarcely saw what
they looked at.

"D'Arthenay, tenez foi!"

And the place was free from moss, as they always said; the rude
scratch, as of a sharp-pointed instrument. Did it mean anything? He
dropped beside it for a minute, and studied the stone; then rose and
went his way again, still wandering on and on, he knew not whither.