"Don't go," she whispered when the music suddenly ceased. "Beryl's
funny. She likes to be alone when she plays."
"I never heard her play--like _that_!"
"Oh, Beryl's wonderful!" Robin smiled happily in her faith. "She makes
that all up, too, 'cause she hasn't any music. She's going to be the
greatest violinist in the world. Hush!"
Beryl had begun a lilting refrain, as though a mother laughed as she
sang a lullaby. It had in it a familiar strain which carried little Mrs.
Moira back to Beryl's baby days. Then the lullaby swung into the deeper
tones of a Christmas anthem and again into a tempestuous outburst of
melody, as though Beryl had let loose all at once the riotous feelings
that surged within her.
Just as the last note died away a bell pealed through the house. Because
it was still Christmas, really being only nine o'clock, everyone looked
for a surprise. And a surprise it was, indeed, when Harkness placed an
impressive envelope in Robin's hands and said that a stranger had
brought it to the door.
"He looked like one of these motorcycle men, but before I could as much
as say 'Good evening' he was off in the dark.
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