"I'll be glad to," Rose answered, with lips that scarcely moved.
"Will you help me work up my programs for next season?"
"Indeed I will. Don't stop now, please—really, I'm not tired."
While she was still protesting, he led her away from the piano to an easy chair. "Sit there," he said, "and I'll do the work. Those accompaniments are heavy."
He went back to his violin, tightened a string, and began to play, alone. The melody was as delicate in structure as the instrument itself, yet strangely full of longing. Slowly the violin gave back the music of which it was made; the wind in the forest, the sound of many waters, moonlight shimmering through green aisles of forest, the mating calls of Spring. And again, through it all, surged some great question to which Rose thrilled in unspoken answer; a great prayer, which, in some secret way, she shared.
It came to an end at last when she felt that she could bear no more.
"What is it?" she forced herself to ask.
"I haven't named it," he replied, putting down his violin.
"Is—is it—yours?"
"Of course. Why not?"
Isabel came to the piano and took up the violin. "May I look at it?"