And then slowly, as the note still hung in the balance, his face chilled and changed. The fiddle was as full of music as it would hold, but just for the moment it would not give it up. All those months of silence it had been singing to itself, and now the racing torrent was choking its throat. Slowly his bow sank ... slowly ... and sank.... “Nay, it’s ganged.” “What’s ganged, Father?” “The music.” “It’ll come back right enough,” Thomas said in a cheerful tone. “Let’s see if I can mind the tune.” He pursed his lips to whistle, thought a moment, and began. “Yon’s it.” “Ay, yon’s it.” He bent to the fiddle again. “I’ve got it now.” The moment that was like a sharpened string drew to its length again and snapped like a string.... “Nay, I’ve not.” “It’s like this, you’ll think on,” Agnes put in. She started to hum the air in a gay little voice, and Kit nodded his head and listened and said “Ay.” She beat out the time with her foot, and the fiddle went up and down. Then he lifted his bow and waited ... and listened again.... “Nay, it’s ganged.” “We’ll give him a lead, missis!” Thomas cried, and began to whistle the music very loud. At once they flung themselves eagerly into the dance, lithe, earnest figures making their neat, light steps. As they danced he whistled and she sang, until the house was filled with the tune from floor to roof. The very flags of the kitchen seemed to sway to the air; it seemed impossible that the old man could not hear. Faster and faster they speeded it up, and, as they whirled, their eyes met once and again, and then they smiled. Every moment they looked for the fiddle to join in, putting fresh life and rhythm into their feet. And instead they heard the old man’s voice crying aloud, harsh with the harshness of great pain and fear. He struck the table soundingly with his open palm. “Whisht, will ye? Whisht! Didn’t I say it was ganged?” Now he was straight on his feet and gazing blankly round, not seeming to see them where they had fallen apart.... “There’s nowt left o’ the things I used to know.” “You’re out o’ practice,” Thomas murmured in an uncertain tone; and Agnes added—“It’s Marget’s blame, for never letting you play.” “Ay, but she let me nurse fiddle on my knee, and tunes was singing in my head all the time. Now I’ve come back and they waint sing no more.” “You’ll see they’ll sing right enough afore so long.” He covered them again with the same unseeing eyes. “I’d ha’ done better to stop where I were.” Agnes put out her hand at that with a little cry. “Nay, now, Father, you mustn’t talk like that!” “At Marget’s I see this spot as plain as plain, and my missis stirring through the rooms. I see the bits o’ sticks we bought when we was wed, and the hearth where we set together of a night. But now I’m back I can’t see any o’ they things no more.” “Times change, dad,” pleaded his son, “but we’ll make you comfortable, I’m sure.”