“Come, come—­the day began so pleasantly—­it was so good to feel well again—­let us talk about the piano instead.  That is,” he added, with an obvious overture to playfulness, “if the thought of having a piano is not too distasteful to you.”

Alice yielded almost effusively to his altered mood.  They went together into the sitting-room, to measure and decide between the two available spaces which were at their disposal, and he insisted with resolute magnanimity on her settling this question entirely by herself.  When at last he mentioned the fact that it was Friday, and he would look over some sermon memoranda before he went out, Alice retired to the kitchen in openly cheerful spirits.

Theron spread some old manuscript sermons before him on his desk, and took down his scribbling-book as well.  But there his application flagged, and he surrendered himself instead, chin on hand, to staring out at the rhododendron in the yard.  He recalled how he had seen Soulsby patiently studying this identical bush.  The notion of Soulsby, not knowing at all how to sing, yet diligently learning those sixths, brought a smile to his mind; and then he seemed to hear Celia calling out over her shoulder, “That’s what Chopin does—­he sings!” The spirit of that wonderful music came back to him, enfolded him in its wings.  It seemed to raise itself up—­a palpable barrier between him and all that he had known and felt and done before.  That was his new birth—­that marvellous night with the piano.  The conceit pleased him—­not the less because there flashed along with it the thought that it was a poet that had been born.  Yes; the former country lout, the narrow zealot, the untutored slave groping about in the dark after silly superstitions, cringing at the scowl of mean Pierces and Winches, was dead.  There was an end of him, and good riddance.  In his place there had been born a Poet—­he spelled the word out now unabashed—­a child of light, a lover of beauty and sweet sounds, a recognizable brother to Renan and Chopin—­and Celia!

Out of the soothing, tenderly grateful revery, a practical suggestion suddenly took shape.  He acted upon it without a moment’s delay, getting out his letter-pad, and writing hurriedly—­

“Dear Miss Madden,—­Life will be more tolerable to me if before nightfall I can know that there is a piano under my roof.  Even if it remains dumb, it will be some comfort to have it here and look at it, and imagine how a great master might make it speak.

“Would it be too much to beg you to look in at Thurston’s, say at eleven this forenoon, and give me the inestimable benefit of your judgment in selecting an instrument?

“Do not trouble to answer this, for I am leaving home now, but shall call at Thurston’s at eleven, and wait.

“Thanking you in anticipation,

“I am—­”