She got out her most difficult music and by lamplight played it for him. He seemed enchanted.
“Please just show me how that last part goes.”
She did so, saying: “Now you try.”
He played well, though he made many mistakes. As she rose to leave, the clock having struck twelve, he played a few short connected bars, the part she had found difficult, so divinely, that she said: “Do that again. You seem gifted of the gods; they have let you stumble into the perfect way.”
He tried; but the way was as strangely closed as it had been opened.
“Oh! it is half past twelve! Good night, Sandy.”
She went to bed; and dreamed of choirs invisible. Sandy walked up the creek until he was beyond hearing at the house; then he played “Angel Voices” as it should have been played. He came to the house, slept and dreamed; not of angel choirs, but of graceful wood nymphs; and their queen’s name was Jeannette.
The following evening, Sandy got out his fiddle, saying: “This hayr fiddle is shore a fine box;” and he played Turkey in the Straw, improvising variations that put life into their feet and made them think dancing was close akin to worship.
“Miss Litman, will you give me another lesson?”
She declined; thinking it might lead to a misunderstanding. He might think that she desired his company; and she only liked educated men.