The evening of that day after their return from the mountains, when Conrad Lagrange had found Aaron King so absorbed in his mother’s letters, the artist continued in his silent, preoccupied, mood.  The next morning, it was the same.  Refusing every attempt of his friend to engage him in conversation, he answered only with absent-minded mono-syllables; until the novelist, declaring that the painter was fit company for neither beast nor man, left him alone; and went off somewhere with Czar.

The artist spent the greater part of the forenoon in his studio, doing nothing of importance.  That is, to a casual observer he would have seemed to be doing nothing of importance.  He did, however, place his picture of the spring glade beside the portrait of Mrs. Taine, and then, for an hour or more, sat considering the two paintings.  Then he turned the “Quaker Maid” again to the wall and fixed a fresh canvas in place on the easel.  That was all.

Immediately after their midday lunch, he returned to the studio—­hurriedly, as if to work.  He arranged his palette, paints, and brushes ready to his hand, indeed—­but he, then, did nothing with them.  Listlessly, without interest, he turned through his portfolios of sketches.  Often, he looked away through the big, north window to the distant mountain tops.  Often, he seemed to be listening.  He was sitting before the easel, staring at the blank canvas, when, clear and sweet, from the depths of the orange grove, came the pure tones of Sibyl Andres’ violin.

So soft and low was the music, at first, that the artist almost doubted that it was real, thinking—­as he had thought that day when Sibyl came singing to the glade—­that it was his fancy tricking him.  When he and Conrad Lagrange left the mountains three days before, the girl and her companion had not expected to return to Fairlands for at least two weeks.  But there was no mistaking that music of the hills.  As the tones grew louder and more insistent, with a ringing note of gladness, he knew that the mountain girl was announcing her arrival and, in the language she loved best, was greeting her friends.

But so strangely selfish is the heart of man, that Aaron King gave the novelist no share in their neighbor’s musical greeting.  He received the message as if it were to himself alone.  As he listened, his eyes brightened; he stood erect, his face turned upward toward the mountain peaks in the distance; his lips curved in a slow smile.  He fancied that he could see the girl’s winsome face lighted with merriment as she played, knowing his surprise.  Once, he started impulsively toward the door, but paused, hesitating, and turned back.  When the music ceased, he went to the open window that looked out into the rose garden, and watched expectantly.

Presently, he heard her low-voiced song as she came through the orange grove beyond the Ragged Robin hedge.  Then he glimpsed her white dress at the little gate in the corner.  Then she stood in full view.