With her hands resting on the keys she sat and looked out over her beloved harbor.
There was a little silver moon—Diana's moon, the crescent of the huntress.
Well, it was Diana's night! Her fingers struck softly the chords of the music she had created.
On the other side of the street, a tired man, coming out of a house where a sick woman had needed his services, halted and held up his head.
He crossed the road and entered the house.
The rugs deadened the sound of his steps. He stopped on the threshold of that upper room. He could see the faint outlines of the tall white figure; he knew the voice, the song.
"Diana, my dear girl!"
She turned and stood up.