The parlor window was open, and the notes of the piano, accompanied by a sweet voice, became audible as he stepped upon the porch. He stopped a minute to hear, thinking that the musical voice belonged to Flower. Then he shivered. The voice and the words were so sad that they struck a chill to his heart.
It was only an old song, heard many a time before, but its plaintive sadness had never struck him as forcibly as now, when it came sighing through the lace curtains, and mingling with the summer breezes:
"Weary of living, so weary,
Longing to lie down and die,
To find for the sad heart and dreary
The end of the pilgrimage nigh;
Weary, so weary of wishing
For a form that has gone from my sight,
For a voice that is hushed to me ever,
For eyes that to me were so bright!
"Weary, so weary of waiting,
Waiting for sympathy sweet,
For something to love and to love me,
The pleasures that are not so fleet;
For a hand to be held on my forehead,
A glimpse of the golden-brown hair,
For a step that to me was sweet music,
And a brow that was noble and fair!'"
Laurie Meredith's heart thrilled in sympathy with the singer. It was Flower, of course. She was thinking of him, the sweet darling, he knew. Oh, how glad she would be to see him again!
He opened the front door without ceremony, and entered the hall, reckless of the risk he ran of meeting Mrs. Fielding and encountering her angry reproaches. He would stop for nothing now, so anxious was he to clasp that sweet singer to his heart, and tell her she should never be "weary of waiting" again, never be parted from him more.
But the wide hall was silent and deserted. Very softly he opened the parlor door and stepped across the threshold. Then he saw that the girl at the piano was the only occupant of the room.
She turned around quickly, and he saw dark eyes instead of blue ones, dark locks instead of golden curls. Jewel sprung up with a thrilling cry:
"At last!"