"Sometimes between long shadows on the grass
The little truant waves of sunlight pass;
Mine eyes grow dim with tenderness the while,
Thinking I see thee, thinking I see thee smile.

"And sometimes in the twilight gloom apart
The tall trees whisper, whisper heart to heart;
From my fond lips the eager answers fall,
Thinking I hear thee, thinking I hear thee call."

"Yes," said Ambrose North, unsteadily, as the last chord died away, "I
know. You can call and call, but nothing ever comes back to you." The
tears streamed over his blind face as he rose and went out of the room.

"What have I done?" asked Eloise. "Oh, what have I done?"

"Nothing," sighed Barbara. "My mother has been dead for twenty-one
years, but my father never forgets. She was only a girl when she
died--like me."

"I'm so sorry. Why didn't you tell me before, so I could have chosen
jolly, happy things?"

"That wouldn't keep him from grieving--nothing can, so don't be troubled
about it."

Eloise turned back to the piano and sang two or three rollicking,
laughing melodies that set Barbara's one foot to tapping on the floor,
but the old man did not come back.