“Will you come in?” asked Evelina.

“No,” answered the Piper, sadly, “I’ll not be coming in.  ’T is selfish of me, perhaps, but I came to you because I had sorrow of my own.”

Miss Evelina sat down on the step beside him, and waited for him to speak.

“’T is a small sorrow, perhaps, you’ll be thinking,” he said, at last.  “I’m not knowing what great ones you have seen, face to face, but ’t is so ordered That all sorrows are not the same.  ’T is all in the heart that bears them.  I told you I had known them all, and at the time, I was thinking I spoke the truth.  A woman never loved me, and so I have lost the love of no woman, but,” he went on with difficulty, “no one had ever killed my dog.”

“How?” asked Miss Evelina, dully.  It seemed a matter of small moment to her.

“I’ll not be paining you with that,” the Piper answered, “At the last, ’t was I who killed him to save him from further hurt.  ’T was the best I could do for the little lad, and I’m thinking he’d take it from me rather than from any one else.  I’m missing his cheerful bark and his pleasant ways, but I’ve taken him away for ever from Doctor Dexter and his kind.”

“Doctor Dexter!” Evelina sprang to her feet, her body tense and quivering.

“Aye, Doctor Dexter—­not the young man, but the old one.”

A deep-drawn breath was her only answer, but the Piper looked up, startled.  Slowly he rose to his feet and leaned toward her intently, as though to see her face behind her veil.

“Spinner in the Shadow,” he said, with infinite tenderness, “I’m thinking ’t was he who hurt you, too!”

Evelina’s head drooped, she swayed, and would have fallen, had he not put his arm around her.  She sat down on the step again, and hid her veiled face in her hands.

“’T was that, I’m thinking, that brought me to you,” he went on.  “I knew you did not care much for the little lad—­he was naught to any one but me.  ’T is this that binds us together—­you and I.”

The moon climbed higher into the heavens and the clouds were blown away.  The shadow of the cypress was thrown toward them, and the dense night of it concealed the half-open door.

“See,” breathed Evelina, “the shadow of the cypress is long.”

“Aye,” answered Piper Tom, “the shadow of the cypress is long and the rose blooms but once a year.  ’T is the way of the world.”

He loosened his flute from the cord by which it was slung over his shoulder.  “I was going to the woods,” he said, “but at the last, I could not, for the little lad always fared with me when I went out to play.  He would sit quite still when I made the music, so still that he never frightened even the birds.  The birds came, too.

“’T is a way I’ve had for long,” he continued.  “I never could be learning the printed music, so I made music of my own.  So many laughed at it, not hearing any tune, that I’ve always played by myself.  ’T was my own soul breathing into it—­perhaps I’m not to blame that it never made a tune.