Just then, and somewhat to his relief, Mrs. Devine came up to him. "There are two or three people here who heard you play at the concert, and I have been asked to try to persuade you to do so again," she said. "Clarice Marvin would be delighted to lend you her violin." Seeing that it was expected of him, Brooke agreed, and there was a brief discussion during the choosing of the music, in which two or three young women took part. Then it was discovered that the piano part of the piece fixed upon was unusually difficult, and the girl who had offered Brooke the violin said, "You must ask Barbara, Mrs. Devine." Barbara, being summoned, made excuses when she heard what was required of her, until the lady violinist looked at her in wonder. "Now," she said, "you know you can play it if you want to. You went right through it with me only a week ago." A faint tinge of color crept into Barbara's cheek, but saying nothing further, she took her place at the piano, and Brooke bent down towards her when he asked for the note. "It really doesn't commit you to anything," he said. "Still, I can obviate the difficulty by breaking a string." Barbara met his questioning gaze with a little cold smile. "It is scarcely worth while," she said. Then she commenced the prelude, and there was silence in the big room when the violin joined in. Nor were those who listened satisfied with one sonata, and Barbara had finished the second before she once more remembered whom she was playing for. Then there was a faint sparkle in her eyes as she looked up at him. "It is unfortunate that you did not choose music as a career," she said. Brooke laughed, though his face was a trifle grim. "The inference is tolerably plain," he said. "I really think I should have been more successful than I was at claim-jumping." Barbara turned away from the piano, and Brooke, who laid down the violin, took the vacant place beside her. "Still, I'm almost afraid it's out of the question now," he said, looking down at his scarred hands. "The kind of thing I have been doing the past few years spoils one's wrist. You no doubt noticed how slow I was in part of the shifting." The girl noticed the leanness of his hands and the broken nails, and then glanced covertly at his face. It was gaunt and hollow, and she was sensible that there was a suggestion of weariness in his pose, which had, so far as she could remember, not been there before. Again a little thrill of compassion ran through her, and she felt, perhaps illogically, as she had done during the sonata, that no man could be wholly bad who played the violin as he did. Still, the last thing she intended doing was admitting it. "Why did you stay at the Dayspring through the winter?" she asked, abruptly.