There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. Go to her and tell her. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. She opened it and imbibed.
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