"Then I'll go over and try the piano. May I?"
"If you'll play for us when we come over, Miss Bronson."
Bronson and Lorry sat on the veranda and smoked. Dorothy was playing a sprightly melody. She ceased to play, and presently the sweet old tune "Annie Laurie" came to them. Lorry, with cigarette poised in his fingers, hummed the words to himself. Bronson was watching him curiously. The melody came to an end. Lorry sighed.
"Sounds like that ole piano was just singin' its heart out all by itself," he said. "I wish Bud could hear that."
Almost immediately came the sprightly notes of "Anitra's Dance."
"And that's these here woods—and the water prancin' down the rocks, and a slim kind of a girl dancin' in the sunshine and then runnin' away to hide in the woods again." And Lorry laughed softly at his own conceit.
"Do you know the tune?" queried Bronson.
"Nope. I was just makin' that up."
"That's just Dorothy," said Bronson.
Lorry turned and gazed at him. And without knowing how it came about, Lorry understood that there had been another Dorothy who had played and sung and danced in the sunshine. And that this sprightly, slender girl was a bud of that vanished flower, a bud whose unfolding Bronson watched with such deep solicitude.