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gone to

the window

and seen

him, she

would not

have been

half so

deeply

disturbed

as she was

by that

echo of an

old

emotion.

The link

which

yesterday

she

thought

broken for

good was

reforged

in some

mysterious

way. The

sobbing of

that old

fiddle had

been his

way of

saying,

"Forgive

me;

forgive!"

To leave

him would

have been

so much

easier if

she had

really

hated him;

but she

did not.

However

difficult

it may be

to live

with an

artist, to