"A good boy! Ha! He was not a good boy. I knew him better than you did. He was like all other boys and no boys are good. They are nothing but little pirates, prize fighters, screaming, noisy Indians, because they are savages themselves. They have no honor. They worship criminals and always want the criminal to escape, because they are criminals themselves. And Cyrus was just like the others. Good indeed! He was always evil minded." "Evil minded! Cyrus evil minded!" Ruth stopped, and stood before Joanna. "I tell you he's bad--just bad. As a boy he was bad, as a man he is bad--treacherous, cowardly, mean spirited and absolutely dishonorable. And that's why I hate him!" For a moment, with angry eyes and quivering lips she stood looking down into the other woman's puzzled face. Then, dropping to her knees, she buried her face in Joanna's lap. "Oh, I am so unhappy! So unhappy! Let me die!" Joanna understood. Although unemotional herself she knew how to sympathize with the passion torn woman at her knees. Her own calm spirit and soothing words had their effect, and Ruth was soon herself again. "And now, dearie," said Joanna, "I am going to bring you a cup of tea." Alone in the green sitting room Ruth seated herself beside the center table. This table held, with other things, several books and papers, one or two mechanical drawings, some magazines and books. One of these books was lying open, just before her. A paragraph at the top of one of the open pages was marked in pencil. Being a scientific book Cyrus must have marked it. At that moment any thought of interest to him appealed to Ruth as something sanctified by his absence, a special message to herself. Besides, that the book should be lying open at this particular page seemed to her over wrought spirit as if placed there by Cyrus himself for her to read. Had she stopped to think she would have known the open book was accidental, as she was the last person whom Cyrus could expect to visit him. But Fate and Providence do stranger things than fiction dares invent. Carefully she read the marked passage, in a reverent spirit, as she would read a farewell message from a departed friend. It said: "All sounds from earth are drifting forever into space. A strain of music will reach, in time, the most distant star. The music of the spheres is not an empty phrase. We know that wherever light will travel those waves that carry light through space will carry sound. Messages from other planets, for all we know, are reaching us to-day, but we are not attuned to hear them. Our own little song, or prayer, may reach the farthest star, but for its reception the sender and recipient must be in true accord." With quivering hands she clutched the book, held it up before her eyes, and read the words again. Then she dropped the book upon the table and started up. In her eyes was a new light. "But for its reception," she repeated, "the sender and recipient must be in true accord!"