“Sibyl Andres is the most accomplished violinist I have ever heard,” said the Ranger.  “And I haven’t always lived in these mountains, you know.  As for Myra Willard—­well—­she taught Sibyl—­though she doesn’t pretend to equal her now.”

Conrad Lagrange was interested, now, in earnest He turned to the artist, eagerly—­but with caution—­“Do you suppose it could be our neighbors in the orange grove, Aaron?”

Brian Oakley watched them with quiet amusement.

“I know it is,” returned the artist.

“You know it is!” ejaculated the other.

“Sure—­I heard the violin this afternoon.  While I was fishing,” he added hastily, when the Ranger laughed.

The novelist commented savagely, “Seems to me you’re mighty careful about keeping your news to yourself!”

This brought another burst of merriment from the mountaineer.

When the two men had explained to the Ranger about the music in the orange grove, Conrad Lagrange related how they had first heard that cry in the night; and how, when they had gone to the neighboring house, they had seen the woman of the disfigured face standing in the doorway.

“It was Miss Willard who cried out,” said Brian Oakley, quietly.  “She dreams, sometimes, of the accident—­or whatever it was—­that left her with those scars—­at least, that’s what I think it is.  Certainly it’s no ordinary dream that would make a woman cry like that.  The first time I heard her—­the first time that she ever did it, in fact—­she and Sibyl were stopping over night at my house.  It was three years ago.  Jim Rutlidge had just come West, on his first trip, and was up in the hills on a hunt.  He happened along about sundown, and when he stepped into the room and Myra saw him, I thought she would faint.  He looked like some one she had known—­she said.  And that night she gave that horrible cry.  Lord! but it threw a fright into me.  My wife didn’t get over being nervous, for a week.  Myra explained that she had dreamed—­but that’s all she would say.  I figured that being upset by Rutlidge’s reminding her of some one she had known started her mind to going on the past—­and then she dreamed of whatever it was that gave her those scars.”

“You have known Miss Willard a long time, haven’t you, Brian?” asked Conrad Lagrange, with the freedom of an old comrade—­for men may grow closer together in one short season in the mountains than in years of meeting daily in the city.

“I’ve known her ever since she came into the hills.  That was the year Sibyl was born.  All that anybody knows is what has happened since.  Sibyl’s mother, even—­a month before she died—­told me that Myra’s history, before she came to them, was as unknown to her as it was the day she stopped at their door.”

“I can’t get over the feeling that I ought to know her—­that I have seen her somewhere, years ago,” said the novelist, by way of explaining his interest.