Instantly, the painter understood.  Mrs. Taine had employed Sibyl Andres to play for her guests that evening; thinking to tease the artist by presenting his mountain comrade in the guise of a hired servant.  Why the girl had not told him, he did not know.  Perhaps she had thought to enjoy his surprise.  The effect of the girl’s presence—­or rather of her music, for she, herself, could not be seen—­upon the artist was quite other than Mrs. Taine intended.

Under the spell of the spirit that spoke in the violin, Aaron King was carried far from his glittering surroundings.  Again, he stood where the bright waters of Clear Creek tumbled among the granite boulders, and where he had first moved to answer the call of that music of the hills.  Again, he followed the old wagon road to the cedar thicket; and, in the little, grassy opening with its wild roses, its encircling wilderness growth, and its old log house under the sheltering sycamores, saw a beautiful girl dancing with the unconscious grace of a woodland sprite, her arms upheld in greeting to the mountains.  Once again, he was painting in the sacred quiet of the spring glade where she had come to him with her three gifts; where, in maidenly innocence, she had danced the dance of the butterflies; and, later, with her music, had lifted their friendship to heights of purity as far above the comprehension of the company that listened to her now, as the mountain peaks among the stars that night were high above the house on Fairlands Heights.

The music ceased.  It was followed by the loud clapping of hands—­with exclamations in high-pitched voices.  “Who is it?” “Where did you find him?” “What’s his name?”—­for they judged, from Mrs. Taine’s introductory words, that she expected them to show their appreciation.

Mrs. Taine laughed, and, with her eyes mockingly upon the artist’s face answered lightly, “Oh, she is a discovery of mine.  She teaches music, and plays in one of the Fairlands churches.”

“You are a wonder,” said one of the illustrious critics, admiringly.  And lifting his glass, he cried, “Here’s to our beautiful and talented hostess—­the patron saint of all the arts—­the friend of all true artists.”

In the quiet that followed the enthusiastic endorsement of the distinguished gentleman’s words, another voice said, “If it’s a girl, can’t we see her?” “Yes, yes,” came from several.  “Please, Mrs. Taine, bring her out.”  “Have her play again.”  “Will she?”

Mrs. Taine laughed.  “Certainly, she will.  That’s what she’s here for—­to amuse you.”  And, again, as she spoke, her eyes met the eyes of Aaron King.