“Glenn Andrews,” she repeated, breathlessly, holding the writing before her eyes. Without a word she stole away, to read it alone. He loved her, this cousin of hers, this practical, unimaginative man, but he had never understood her. Her ideas were not his ideas, nor her hopes his hopes, but he was proud of her in an uncomprehending manner and he smiled at her aspirations as at his boy baby’s ambition to drive the mules. A thrill crept down to her heart. It was a book exquisitely bound, bearing Glenn Andrew’s name. She fondled its pages, ran her hand lovingly over their smooth surface. The book opened to a folded paper, on which were some notes jotted down for the violin, an accompaniment to a song that he had written. Turning the leaves, she came to a card; a line on the back of it read: “You can learn this. Let me hear at New York address after April.” It was dropped by a poem, “My Little Love of Long Ago.” This girl, gifted with all the subtlety of rare natures, understood. Her face quivered with tenderness as she gazed at it. The world was full of light--somebody in it took an interest in her. This had fallen like some faint, soft fragrance in her life. Between laughter and tears she read the poem: “My little love of long ago, (How swiftly fly the tired years!) She told me solemnly and low Of all her hopes and all her fears. She feared the dangers of the way, The striving and the work-a-day That waited far across the sea-- The loneliness of missing me. She never doubted me--ah, no! My little love of long ago. “For she had faith in everything, (How swiftly fly the tired hours!) A heart that could not help but sing, And blossomed out amid the flowers. My loving was its best refrain, My leaving was its saddest rain. She sobbed it all upon my knee-- The loneliness of missing me. I kissed and comforted her so-- My little love of long ago. “My little love of long ago, (How swiftly fly the tired days!) Such little feet to stumble slow Along the darkest of life’s ways, While time and distance and the sea, Or my poor, careless heart, maybe, Could not have told from spring to spring, Why we so long went wandering! Saddest of all is not to know! My little love of long ago.” Esther was radiant with joy. She sped over the ground like a wild young deer, running to the house for her long-forsaken violin. She carried it to the back of the orchard. She propped the music up in the low fork of an apple tree, and wrestled with the opening bars. It was written in a minor key and was the most difficult accompaniment she had ever seen. Over and over again she tried to bring out the plaintive harmony that was there. She had to give it up at last--it was beyond her reach--it challenged her. This caused her flickering ambition to flash up anew.