“Your Song,” said the cripple timidly, “some day I will hear it. Not yet. That night in Bay City, when you took me in, I heard it very dim. But I cannot play it yet on my violin.”
“Has your violin a song of its own?” queried the man.
“I cannot hear it. It tries to sing, but there is something in the way. I cannot. Some day I will hear it and play it, but—” and he drew nearer Thorpe and touched his arm—“that day will be very bad for me. I lose something.” His eyes of the wistful dog were big and wondering.
“Queer little Phil!” cried Thorpe laughing whimsically. “Who tells you these things?”
“Nobody,” said the cripple dreamily, “they come when it is like to-night. In Bay City they do not come.”
At this moment a third voice broke in on them.
“Oh, it's you, Mr. Thorpe,” said the captain of the vessel. “Thought it was some of them lumber-jacks, and I was going to fire 'em below. Fine night.”
“It is that,” answered Thorpe, again the cold, unresponsive man of reticence. “When do you expect to get in, Captain?”
“About to-morrow noon,” replied the captain, moving away. Thorpe followed him a short distance, discussing the landing. The cripple stood all night, his bright, luminous eyes gazing clear and unwinking at the moonlight, listening to his Heart Song of the Sea.