That her ear might catch the faintest sound, she was sitting up in bed. And such a sweet-scented bed as it was! Blankets spread over nature’s thick mattress of dry moss and balsam tips.
“Why can’t I forget and fall asleep,” she asked herself.
Once again she leaned forward to listen. “How sweet!” she murmured as she caught the night call of some small bird, a single long-drawn note. “Just a call in the night.”
And then, muscles tense, ears strained, she sat erect.
“There it is again!”
No bird this time, no single note, but many notes. Yet it was all so indistinct.
“The phantom violin!” Her lips trembled. “Like the singing of angels!” she told herself.
“There, now it has faded away.” Regret was registered in her tone.
Once again she crept under the blankets to the warm spot at Florence’s side.
They had come far that day, with pack on back over rough moose trails. The stalwart Florence had carried the heaviest load. Now, oblivious to all about her, she slept the deep sleep of one possessed of a clear head and a healthy body.