for one, a great deal of pleasure with your wonderful music. I often
hear you as you play after supper, and it has kept me from being
lonesome. That isn't very much, to be sure."

"You are fond of music, then?"

"I didn't know I was; I never heard any before," said Lyddy simply;
"but it seems to help people to say things they couldn't say for
themselves, don't you think so? It comforts me even to hear it, and
I think it must be still more beautiful to make it."

Now, Lyddy Ann Butterfield had no sooner uttered this commonplace
speech than the reflection darted through her mind like a lightning
flash that she had never spoken a bit of her heart out like this in
all her life before. The reason came to her in the same flash: she
was not being looked at; her disfigured face was hidden. This man,
at least, could not shrink, turn away, shiver, affect indifference,
fix his eyes on hers with a fascinated horror, as others had done.
Her heart was divided between a great throb of pity and sympathy for
him and an irresistible sense of gratitude for herself. Sure of
protection and comprehension, her lovely soul came out of her poor
eyes and sat in the sunshine. She spoke her mind at ease, as we
utter sacred things sometimes under cover of darkness.

"You seem to have had an accident; what can I do to help you?" she
asked.

"Nothing, thank you. The boy has been sick for some days, but he
seems worse since last night. Nothing is in its right place in the
house, so I have given up trying to find anything, and am just going