the light slanting over it, he peered
inside, but found no inscription. ``No
maker's name--strange,'' he said. He
tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently; ``he must be asleep; he
won't hear me,'' and noiselessly he
closed the door. ``I guess if I play a
tune on it he won't know.''

He took the bow from its place in the
case and tightened it. He listened
again. ``He is fast asleep,'' he whispered.
``I'll play the song I always
played for her--until,'' and the old man
repeated the words of the refrain:


``Fair as a lily, joyous and free,
Light of the prairie home was she;
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power
Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.''


He sat again in the arm-chair and
placed the violin under his chin.
Tremulously he drew the bow across the
middle string, his bloodless fingers moving
slowly up and down.

The theme he played was the melody