Next day, just as the shadows were beginning to lengthen on the hillside, Greta found herself joined in an undertaking the like of which she had never before known. Her part seemed as simple as the song of a bird who on a branch far above her head warbled in his own sweet way; yet she threw into it every atom of her being.
Seated on a moss-covered rock a stone’s throw from the mysterious lodge, she tucked her violin under her chin and played as she had never done before. The tunes that crept out from that evergreen forest, like songs from the heart, were old as life itself, yet known and loved by every generation. She played one of those sweet, melodious songs of twilight, written as only an inspired artist can compose, then rested with bow poised, waiting. From away on the hill across the narrow lake the notes came back to her.
Not an echo, but the crystal clear notes of a second violin, played as only one musician could play them, Percy O’Hara.
Once again she played the slow, dreamy refrain. And, as before, it came drifting back to her.
Inside the lodge Florence, listening, caught the rise and fall of that song and thought it must come from another world.
But strange events were passing. Before her in a great cushioned chair sat a boy of fourteen. His attractive face was as white as death.
“Think!” The little doctor, looking into the boy’s face, spoke softly. “Think, think back, back, back. What frightens you? Why do you cry out? Think back.”
He leaned forward. Through the open window floated the entrancing music. Florence, understanding the meaning and the terrible import of it all, scarcely breathed, yet her lips moved in prayer.
“Think!” the doctor repeated. “Think back. Now you are twelve, skating, playing football, wandering through the forest. Do you see anything that terrifies you?”
No answer.