He stood leaning against a tree near one of the windows. The summer air was very still. Only occasionally the birds stirred in their nests above his head and murmured sleepily. Once some restless animal pounded the floor of the barn.
Suddenly a low strain of music startled him. Did it come from one of the open windows? Timidly soft it sounded, as though fearing to let itself be heard—weird and sad.
The man out among the shadows trembled. “Can that be she? Has she given in?”
The music grew more abandoned. In its sorrow it seemed to have forgotten its timidity. The long notes sobbed and moaned, now and then dying into quieter, more entreating tones. In their tears they paused and prayed.
The listener was a musician, and the melody reached the depths of his soul. Facing the window, he called in a broken voice, “Gertrude.”
The music instantly ceased. A glad cry rang out, “Herman! my Herman!”
In a second, the man had vaulted the low sill of the parlor window. He hurriedly glanced around the room. No musical instrument could be seen, but a trembling form was steadying itself against the casing.
“Gertie, poor little Gertie!”
A faint voice answered, “Is it true? Can it be you? O Herman!”
Again the music rang out. Triumphant peals this time, strain after strain of tumultuous joy, clearer and clearer, stronger and stronger, until the notes could hardly hold their fulness.