The room suddenly grew dark, and they heard the soft sighing of the wind in the branches of the trees nearby. These signs were precursors of one of the mountain showers so common in the coast Range of the Province. A moment later there came the intermittent patter of big raindrops on the roof, gradually increasing until it became a strumming roar that debarred conversation.
Connie lighted a candle, and using the neck of an empty vinegar bottle as a candlestick, she placed it on the table, then took a seat outside the radius of the dim light.
The door opened to admit the Breed. As he entered a rush of sweet rain-washed air, laden with the odour of fragrant buds, filled the room. Shaking a shower of glistening raindrops from his wide sombrero, the Breed hobbled silently on moccasined feet to a seat in the corner.
The pelting rain dwindled to a drizzle, then stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
For an hour Wainwright gave a disquisition of the value of plant life to mankind. Selecting two books from the shelves, he placed them on the table before Andy. “You will find no difficulty in understanding these volumes, as they are written for the novice. You will also find that there is no pursuit more conducive to health and happiness than the study of plants. It keeps one largely in the open air, and promotes pure and helpful thinking. For this reason parents should lead the minds of their children to the study of plant life.”
During her father’s discourse Connie’s eyes scarcely left Donald’s face. The Breed from the darkness of the corner noticed her rapt interest in the tall stranger, and his dusky eyes glittered with jealousy. He limped to the doorway, and, as he turned, Donald could not repress a start as he caught the malignant look of hate which shot from the half-breed’s glowing eyes.
“Constance, dear, will you play for us?” asked her father.
She moved obediently to her bunk, and from the floor beneath she drew out a much worn violin case.
The mellow radiance from the candle and the ever-changing lights from the open draft of the small stove cast long, wavering shadows within the cabin. From without came the wailing of the wind, the creaking of the trees, and the steady drip of water from the eaves.
As the bow touched the strings Connie forgot her shyness. The violin drifted into a melody as light as a bird singing through the trees, now joyous, anon sobbing in a deep rhythm of eerie sadness. As she played her body swayed, almost imperceptibly, as a blossoming tree sways under a soft spring breeze.