Rosemary had inherited her passionate love for music from her, and her delight and wonder were no greater than her mother's as the music came nearer. Someone was playing Schubert's "Serenade" in the moonlight.
"I see him!" whispered Rosemary. "Look, Mother—an old man!"
Sure enough, as they watched, a halting figure came down the road which the moonlight had changed to a silver ribbon. They knew he was old for he was stooped and walked with the shuffling gait that comes from feebleness. His head was bent over his violin, and as he walked those unearthly sweet strains melted into the moonlight and became a part of the silver mist. Just as he reached a point opposite the house he must have stopped. A tree hid him from the two watching. Probably he sat down on the large rock at the side of the road to rest—to rest and play. For, hidden from the enthralled listeners, he played the "Serenade" through twice, lovingly, delicately, with a haunting yearning that held a touch of genius. Then, still playing, he shuffled on. They caught a glimpse of him as he came out from behind the tree, saw the light flash on his bow and he was gone. They listened until his music had died away in the distance—always the "Serenade," over and over.
"Oh—Mother!" Rosemary raised her blue eyes, swimming in tears.
"Yes, dearest—" there was a little catch in Mrs. Willis' tender voice. "It was very beautiful and very wonderful—but you must go to bed now. It is late."
Rosemary, turning drowsily to pillow her cheek on her hand after her mother's kiss, was conscious of a hope that the old violin player might not lack a comfortable bed and the peace and security of a home—somewhere.
"It is so nice at Rainbow Hill," murmured Rosemary, drifting off into delicious slumber.