white as a mansion in a fairy tale. Mr. Pincornet was no skilled
musician, but the air he played was old and sweet, and it served the
hour. Below their mountain-top lay the misty valleys; to the east the
moon-flooded plains; to the west the far line of the Blue Ridge. The
night was cloudless.

Rand stood with his hands upon the balustrade, then walked down the
terrace and paused before the dancing master. "Before he hurt his hand
Mr. Jefferson played the violin beautifully," he said. "When I was
younger, in the days when I tried to do everything that he did, I tried
to learn it too. But I have no music in me."

"It is a solace," answered Mr. Pincornet. "I learned long ago, in the
South."

"I like the harp," announced Rand abruptly.

"It is a becoming instrument to a woman," replied Mr. Pincornet, and in
a somewhat ghostly fashion became vivacious. "Ah, a rounded arm, a white
hand, the rise and fall of a bosom behind the gold wires--and the notes
like water dropping, sweet, sweet! Ah, I, too, like the harp!"

"I have never heard it but twice," said Rand, and turned again to the
balustrade. Below him lay the vast and shadowy landscape. Here and there
showed a light--a pale earth-star shining from grey hill or vale. Rand
looked toward Fontenoy, and he looked wistfully. Behind him the violin
was telling of the springtime; from the garden came the smell of the
syringas; the young man's desire was toward a woman. "Is she playing her
harp to-night? is she playing to Ludwell Cary?"