This time it did not stop, but went on and on, swelling and dying away and bursting out again into new ecstasies. In one of the pauses, when nothing but the ’cello’s chant came to her ears, Lydia suddenly heard mingling with it the sweet, faint voice of a little stream whispering vaguely, near her. It sounded almost like rain on autumn leaves. The lights in the car flared up, blinding white, but the two men on the step did not stir. The conductor sat with his arms folded on his knees, his head on his arms. The motorman leaned against the end of the car. When the music finally died, after one long, ringing, exultant shout, no one moved for a time.
Then the motorman stood up, drawing on his glove.
“Quite a concert!” said the conductor, starting for the back platform.
“They do fine!” repeated the motorman.
The accountant came forward from the shadow and helped Lydia up the steps. There were traces of tears on his tired face.
In September, when her mother leaned over her to say in a joyful, trembling voice, “Oh, Lydia, it’s a girl, a darling little girl!” Lydia opened her white lips to say, “She is Ariadne.”
“What did you say?” asked her mother.
“We must see that she has the clue,” said Lydia faintly.
Mrs. Emery tiptoed to the doctor. “Keep her very quiet,” she whispered; “she is a little out of her head.”