HIS THIN FINGERS BEGAN TO STRAY OVER THE STRINGS.
Was his mind wandering? There was a dreamy look in his face as he sank back on the pillows, and his thin fingers began to stray over the strings. I waited in silence.
Mechanically he tuned the guitar, and played a few chords. Then came a strange, sweet tune that reminded me of fairy music floating down from distant hills.
"The horns of Elfland faintly blowing—"
Might have sounded just as soft and gay. There was nothing sad in the melody, but it left its hearer unsatisfied. What did it mean? What words were set to this enchanting air? One wanted to hear it again and yet again.
The feeble hands soon came to a pause, and I saw that all the fire had died out of Monsieur Léon's eyes. It was time for me to go. I had long outstayed the "half-hour" to which nurse had limited my absence. Ronald would be anxiously looking for my return.
"I am afraid you are exhausted," I said, rising. "Is there nothing I can do before I leave you?"
He thanked me softly and shook his head. Then, with a gesture, he desired me to take up the guitar. But I touched it reluctantly. It must have been so hard for him to part with it. It seemed so cruel to take it away.
"Are you really willing to let it go?" I asked, anxiously.