But he let his mind linger long and with thrilling joy through the interlude in the dance. Every detail of that scene stood clearly limned before his mind. The bare skeleton of the new harp, the crowding, eager, tense faces of the listeners, his mother's and Margaret's in the hindmost row, his brother standing in the centre foreground, the upturned face of the singer with its pale romantic loveliness, all in the mystery of the moonlight, and, soaring over all, that clear, vibrant, yet softly passionate, glorious voice. That was the final magic touch that rolled back the screen and set before him the new world which must henceforth be his. He could not explain that touch. The songs were the old simple airs worn threadbare by long use in the countryside. It was certainly not the songs. Nor was it the singer. Curiously enough, the girl, her personality, her character, worthy or unworthy, had only a subordinate place in his thought. He was conscious of her presence there as a subtle yet powerful influence, but as something detached from the upturned face illumined in the soft moonlight and the stream of heart-shaking song. She was to him thus far simply a vision and a voice, to which all the psychic element in him made eager response. As he drove into the quiet Mill yard it came upon him with a shock of pain that with the old life he had done forever. He felt himself already detached from it. The new self looking out upon its new world had shaken off his boyhood as the bursting leaf shakes off the husks of spring.
As Dick's gay exclamation of delight at sight of the old home fell upon his ear a deeper pain struck him, for he vaguely felt that while his brother still held his place in the centre of the stage, that stage had immeasurably extended and was now peopled with other figures, shadowy, it is true, but there, and influential. His brother, who with his mother, or, indeed, perhaps more than his mother, had absorbed his boyish devotion, must henceforth share that devotion with others. Upon this thought his brother's voice broke in.
“What's the matter, old chap? Is there anything wrong?”
The kindly tone stabbed like a knife.
“No, no. Nothing, Dick.”
“Yes, but there is. You're not the same.” At the anxious appeal in the voice Barney stood for a moment steadily regarding his brother, for whom he could easily give his life, with a troubled sense of change that he could not analyse to himself, much less explain to his brother.
“I don't know, Dick—I can't tell you—I don't think I am the same.” A look of startled dismay fell swiftly down upon the frank, handsome face turned toward him.
“Have I done anything, Barney?” said the younger boy, his dismay showing in his tone.
“No, no, Dick, boy, it has nothing to do with you.” He put his hands on his brother's shoulders, the nearest thing to an embrace he ever allowed himself. “It is in myself; but to you, my boy, I am the same.” His speech came now hurriedly and with difficulty: “And whatever comes to me or to you, Dick, remember I shall never change to you—remember that, Dick, to you I shall never change.” His breath was coming in quick gasps. The younger boy gazed at his usually so undemonstrative brother. Suddenly he threw his arms about his neck, crying in a broken voice, “You won't, Barney, I know you won't. If you ever do I don't want to live.”
For a single moment Barney held the boy in his arms, patting his shoulder gently, then, pushing him back, said impatiently, “Well, I am a blamed old fool, anyway. What in the diggins is the matter with me, I don't know. I guess I want supper, nothing to eat since noon. But all the same, Dick,” he added in a steady, matter-of-fact tone, “we must expect many changes from this out, but we'll stand by each other till the world cracks.”