He went back to his violin, tightened a string, and began to play, alone.  The melody was as delicate in structure as the instrument itself, yet strangely full of longing.  Slowly the violin gave back the music of which it was made; the wind in the forest, the sound of many waters, moonlight shimmering through green aisles of forest, the mating calls of Spring.  And again, through it all, surged some great question to which Rose thrilled in unspoken answer; a great prayer, which, in some secret way, she shared.

It came to an end at last when she felt that she could bear no more.  “What is it?” she forced herself to ask.

“I haven’t named it,” he replied, putting down his violin.

“Is—­is it—­yours?”

“Of course.  Why not?”

Isabel came to the piano and took up the violin.  “May I look at it?”

“Certainly.”

She stroked the brown breasts curiously and twanged the strings as though it were a banjo.  “What make is it?”

“Cremona.  Dad gave it to me for Christmas, a long time ago.  It belonged to an old man who died of a broken heart.”

“What broke his heart?” queried Isabel, carelessly.

“One of his hands was hurt in some way, and he could play no more.”

“Not much to die of,” Isabel suggested, practically.

“Ah, but you don’t know,” he answered, shaking his head.

Francesca had leaned forward and was speaking to Colonel Kent in a low tone.  “I think that somewhere, in the House not Made with Hands, there is a young and lovely mother who is very proud of her boy to-night.”

The Colonel’s fine face took on an unwonted tenderness.  “I hope so.  She left me a sacred trust.”

Francesca crossed the room, drew the young man’s tall head down, and kissed him.  “Well done, dear foster-child.  Your adopted mother, once removed, is fully satisfied with you, and very much pleased with herself, being, vicariously, the parent of a great artist.”

“I hope you don’t consider me ‘raised,’” replied Allison.  “You’re not going to stop ‘mothering’ me, are you?”

“I couldn’t,” was her smiling assurance.  “I’ve got the habit.”

He seemed very young as he looked down at her.  Woman-like she loved him, through the man that he was, for the child that he had been.

“Come, lad,” the Colonel suggested, “it’s getting late and we want to be invited again.”

Allison closed his violin case with a snap, said good-night to Aunt Francesca, then went over to Rose.  “I don’t feel like calling you ’Miss Bernard,” he said.  “Mayn’t I say ‘Cousin Rose,’ as we rejoice in the possession of the same Aunt?”

“Surely,” she answered, colouring faintly.

“Then good-night, Cousin Rose.  I’ll see you soon again, and we’ll begin work.  Your days of leisure are over now.”

Isabel offered him a small, cool hand.  Her eyes were brilliant, brought out by the sparkling silver of her gown.  She glittered even in the low light of the room.  “Good-night, Silver Girl,” he said.  “You haven’t really grown up after all.”