forever cut off from the pleasures of her kind, to gain which the
risk of mental and physical torments was well worth the running. It
seemed as if her youth, sweetness, and immense capacity for loving,
were doomed to wither unsought, unappreciated in the desert of her
destiny. As if to save herself from such an unkind fate, she
involuntarily fell on her knees; but she did not pray, indeed, she
made no attempt to formulate prayer in her heart. Perhaps she
thought that her dumb, bruised loneliness was more eloquent than
words. She remained on her knees for quite a long time. When she got
up, the music stopped. The contrast between the sound and the
succeeding silence was such that the latter seemed to be more
emphatic than the melody.

When she, presently, rose to go, she saw a man standing just behind
her in the aisle; he was elderly and homely-looking, with soft, far-
away eyes.

"Good morning, miss," said the man.

"Good morning," replied Mavis, wondering who he could be.

"I hoped--you zeemed to like my playing."

"Was it you who played so beautifully?"

"I was up there practising just now."

"Do you often practise like that?"

"It isn't often I get the chance; I'm mostly busy varming."