The room was low, broad, and large, and full of books, flowers, low seats, and leaping firelight. A grand-piano, piled with music, dominated the whole. The girl seated herself before it and began to play, with the beautiful, powerful touch of control. After the first bars, the Doctor's head sank back upon the cushions of the chair and the Doctor's hand stole mechanically to the matches. He smoked and she played--quiet, large music, tranquilly filling the room: Bach fugues, German Lieder, fragments of weird northern harmonies, fragments of Beethoven and Schubert, the Largo of Handel,--and all the time she played she looked at the man who lay back in the chair, half turned from her, the cigar drooping from his fingers. There was no sound in the room but the music and light leaping of little flames in the fireplace,--no motion but theirs and the pulsing fingers on the keys. The girl played on and on, till the fire began to die, and with a sudden sigh the Doctor held up his hand. Then she rose at once, and going forward, stood as simply at the side of the fireplace opposite him. She was not beautiful, but, oh, she was beautiful with health and calm vigor. The Doctor let his eyes rest on her. "If you knew," he said, with a little, half-apologetic laugh. In her turn she held up one of her long hands. "But I do;--you forget I was there all the morning. And you pulled him through. As for the rest--" She stooped suddenly and began to pile together the logs; the Doctor watched her, noting with a trained and sensitive eye the muscular ease and grace of the supple arms and shoulders--like music. "Of course"--she spoke lightly--"they will kill you some day, among them; but--it's worth while, isn't it?--and there isn't much else that is, is there?" Still kneeling, she turned and looked straight up at him. "Do you know what it was like this morning--before you came?" The Doctor shook his head. She hesitated a moment, smiling a little. "'Lord, _if Thou hadst been here_, our brother had not died!'" she quoted. The Doctor got up quickly from his chair. He knocked the ash from his cigar and laid it down on the tray. "Well," he said, lightly, "I must be off." He squared his shoulders and held out his hand; its grip upon her own trembled very slightly, but he smiled sunnily. "I'll come back for some more music some day." "Do," the girl said. She had risen and was smiling too. The Doctor looked about the room wistfully. "Jolly place,--I don't get up very often, do I?" "Not very." They smiled at each other again, then the girl, turning abruptly away, walked to the window and came back with a double handful of yellow flowers. "Will you carry these to your wife? They are the first of the year." She held the door open for him, and from the little landing watched him down the stairs. At their turn he glanced up for a moment, holding his hat raised silently. She waved him a mute acknowledgment, then going into the room again, closed the door.