She set herself to listen, her tiny hands working convulsively.  Nearer and nearer the music came, singing of wind and stream and mountain—­the “music that had no tune.”  No sooner had it become clear than it ceased altogether.

But, an hour or so afterward, when the moon had risen, there was a familiar step upon the road outside.  Veiled, Evelina went to the gate and met Piper Tom, whose red feather was aloft in his hat again and whose flute was slung over his shoulder by its accustomed cord.  His pedler’s pack was not to be seen.

“I thought you had gone,” she said.

“I had,” he answered, “but ’t is not written, I’m thinking, that a man may not change his mind as well as a woman.  My heart would not let my feet go away from you until I knew for sure whether or not you were mocking me last night.”

“Mocking you?  No!  Surely you know I would never do that?”

“No, I did not know.  The ways of women are strange, I’m thinking, past all finding out.  In truth, ’t would be stranger if you were not mocking me than it ever could be if you were.  Tell me,” he pleaded, “ah, tell me what you were meaning, in words so plain that I can understand!”

“Come,” said Evelina; “come to where we were sitting last night and I will tell you.”  He followed her back to the maple beside the broken wall, where the two chairs still faced each other.  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at her so keenly that she felt, in spite of the darkness and her veil, that he must see her face.

“Piper Tom,” she said, “when you came to me, I was the most miserable woman on earth.  I had been most cruelly betrayed, and sorrow seized upon me when I was not strong enough to stand it.  It preyed upon me until it became an obsession—­it possessed me absolutely, and from it there was no escape but death.”

“I know,” answered the Piper.  “I found the bottle that had held the dreamless sleep.  I’m thinking you had thrown it away.”

“Yes, I had thrown it away, but only because I was too proud to die at his door—­do you understand?”

“Yes, I’m thinking I understand, but go on.  You’ve not told me whether or no you mocked me.  What did you mean?”

“I meant,” said Evelina, steadfastly, “that if you cared for the woman you had led out of the shadow of the cypress, and for all that was in her heart to give you, she was yours.  Not only out of gratitude, but because you have put trust into a heart that has known no trust since its betrayal, and because, where trust is, there may some day come—­more.”

Her voice sank almost to a whisper, but Piper Tom heard it.  He took her hand in his own, and she felt him tremble—­she was the strong one, now.

“Spinner in the Sun,” he began, huskily, “were you meaning that you’d go with me when I took the highway again, and help me make the world easier for everybody with a hurt heart?”