“Go away,” said his voice, rather abstracted than angry.
“May I try the keys?” I asked. Be still, my Heart! For the scraching had ceased.
“Who’s that?” asked the beloved voice. I say ‘beloved’ because an Ideal is always beloved. The voice was beloved, but sharp.
“It’s me.”
I heard him mutter somthing, and I think he came to the Door.
“Look here,” he said. “Go away. Do you understand? I want to work. And don’t come near here again until seven o’clock.”
“Very well,” I said faintly.
“And then come without fail,” he said.
“Yes, Mr. Beecher,” I replied. How commanding he was! Strong but tender!
“And if anyone comes around making a noise, before that, you shoot them for me, will you?”