gone to
the window
and seen
him, she
would not
have been
half so
deeply
disturbed
as she was
by that
echo of an
old
emotion.
The link
which
yesterday
she
thought
broken for
good was
reforged
in some
mysterious
way. The
sobbing of
that old
fiddle had
been his
way of
saying,
"Forgive
me;
forgive!"
To leave
him would
have been
so much
easier if
she had
really
hated him;
but she
did not.
However
difficult
it may be
to live
with an
artist, to
