"If he could only hear!" she thought. "If he could only wake and know
that what he heard was a message of friendship!"
And with this fancy in her mind she played with such skill as she had
never used before; she made of her violin a voice of sympathy. The fancy
grew and changed as she played. The music became a bridge swung in
mid-air across the world, upon which just for these few minutes she and
Harry Feversham might meet and shake hands. They would separate, of
course, forthwith, and each one go upon the allotted way. But these few
minutes would be a help to both along the separate ways. The chords rang
upon silence. It seemed to Ethne that they declaimed the pride which had
come to her that day. Her fancy grew into a belief. It was no longer "If
he should hear," but "He _must_ hear!" And so carried away was she from
the discretion of thought that a strange hope suddenly sprang up and
enthralled her.
"If he could answer!"
She lingered upon the last bars, waiting for the answer; and when the
music had died down to silence, she sat with her violin upon her knees,
looking eagerly out across the moonlit garden.
And an answer did come, but it was not carried up the creek and across
the lawn.
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