“But if they don’t know it—­”

“They do know it; but not my share in it.”

For a little distance they strolled along in silence.  Then Phebe asked abruptly,—­

“You said, that night at Quantuck, that you were in the middle of some work, when I ran into you.  Did I break it up entirely; or have you ever finished it?”

“Then you haven’t seen the papers?” he asked, with boyish egotism.

“Yes, I always read them.  What then?”

“My symphonic poem is to come out soon.”

“Oh, I don’t ever read the music notes.  I don’t know much about music, anyway.”

“And care less?” he asked a little shortly.

“Oh, I don’t mind it much.  I don’t often go to concerts; but I like it behind palms at receptions.”

For a moment, he looked at her, in doubt whether or not she was jesting.  Then as her face suggested no humorous intent, his color came.

“What about it?” she inquired.  “How is it coming out?”

“I didn’t know as you would be interested.”

“Of course.  I am interested in you, even if I don’t care a fig for your music,” Phebe answered, with a bluntness that should have been death to sentiment.

“It is going to be given in New York, on the twelfth of December,” he said, and Phebe wondered at the slight catch in his breath.  “I’m to conduct the orchestra, you know.  I have sent for Mrs. Farrington to come down and bring Miss Cicely, and—­I wondered—­do you suppose—­at least, could you make time to run over and join them in my box?”

Phebe clasped her hands rapturously.

“Oh, Mr. Barrett!  Could I?  I should like nothing better.  How good you are to ask me!  I shall be so glad of the chance to see Teddy again.”

When the night of the twelfth came, Theodora and Phebe and Cicely were in the box set apart for Mr. Barrett’s use.  Eager and happy as a child, dressed in rose-pink and with a great bunch of pink roses in her hand, Phebe was looking her very best.  Unconscious of the envious eyes which watched her, she talked to the young composer with the same girlish frankness she had shown, that day in the park.  Theodora looked at her in surprise.  This was a new Phebe to her, gentler, infinitely more lovable; yet she smiled now and then as she saw the utter unconcern with which her young sister was receiving the attentions of the hero of the evening.

The symphony over and the aria, Gifford Barrett left them and, a moment later, came forward to the conductor’s desk.  Applause, a hush, then the orchestra gave out the low, ominous chords of the introduction before the violins took up the opening theme which repeated itself, met another theme, paused to play with it for a space, then in slow, majestic growth passed on and up to a climax which left the audience breathless, so much moved that it needed time to rally before bursting into the well-won applause.  The Alan Breck Overture was surpassed, and Gifford Barrett’s name was in every mouth; but Phebe, while she watched him, tried in vain to realize that the man now bowing before the footlights was the man she had capsized upon Bannock Hill, that the right arm which had swayed the orchestra, now banging their approval on their racks, was the arm she had broken, once upon a time, and then tugged back into place.