finer, more subtle charm of maturity. Her shining eyes literally
transfigured her. In their dark depths was a mysterious exaltation, as
from some secret, holy rapture too great for words.

Allison saw and felt it, yet did not know what it was. Once at sunset,
when they were talking idly of other things, he tried to express it.

"I don't know what it is, Rose, but there's something about you lately
that makes me feel--well, as though I were in a church at an Easter
service. The sun through the stained glass window, the blended fragrance
of incense and lilies, and the harp and organ playing the Intermezzo
from Cavalleria--all that sort of thing, don't you know?"

"Why shouldn't your best friend be glad," she had answered gently, "when
you have come to your own Easter--your rising from the dead?"

The dull colour surged into his face, then retreated in waves. "If you
can be as glad as that," he returned, clearing his throat, "I'd be a
brute ever to let myself be discouraged again."

That night, during a wakeful hour, his thoughts went back to Isabel. For
the first time, he saw the affair in its true light--a brief, mad
infatuation. He had responded to Isabel's youth and beauty and an old
moonlit garden full of roses much as his violin answered to his touch
upon the strings. "Had answered," he corrected himself, trying not to
flinch at the thought.

Even if his hand should heal, it was scarcely possible that he would
ever play again, and he knew, as well as anyone, what brilliant promise
the future had held for him. He remembered how wisely he had been