She also found that though they talked they were not talkative. With them conversation became a rhythmic thing—tranquil pause, deep retirement, then again the word. And it startled her almost, how completely they were one.
When they had sat by the fire an hour Marget, rising, put violin music upon a victrola. Hafitz played to them a Hebrew melody; Kreisler played, and Maud Powell. The flames danced, the world heightened. Then, one after the other, came three songs, and between each, as between the violin pieces, they watched the fire, and the forest and the night wind were felt around.
"Oh, that we two were maying!"
The song ended, the fire burned, they heard the river, the forest was all around. A man's voice was lifted.
"Oh, that I knew where I might find Him, that I might come into His Presence!"
Again the wide and deep pause, and then the third song.
"And the world shall go up with a shout unto God."
Marget shut the victrola. Again they sat in that quiet. It was systole and diastole, it was in and out, and inexpressibly it rested! And that was what she wanted, rest.
Marget lighted a lamp that stood upon the table. Linden said, "Hadn't you rather not read, to-night?"