"It’s—it’s Donelle, Donelle Morey. I—couldn’t go away; please do not mind—if you only knew!" "Knew what?" "Why, it’s what I’ve wanted all my life. I did not know; how could I? But now I know, the music has told me." The voice, the intensity and passion stirred the old man. "Come here!" he said, reaching out his hand. "The love you have, does it mean that you sing? Your voice is—is rather fine. Let me have the fingers." Half afraid, Donelle placed her hand in his. "Oh!" Revelle was feeling every inch of the slim hand and fingers. "The long hand and wide between the fingers! And the finger tips; it is the musician’s hand unless nature has played a trick. Will you let me find out if nature has spoken true?" "I—I do not know what you mean." "Are you a young child?" "No, I am old, quite old." "Stand up, let me feel how tall you are. Ah! you are of the right age! Young enough to obey; old enough to hunger. Are you beautiful?" "Oh! No. I’m sure I’m ugly." "Of the light or the dark?" "I’m white, I—I am thin, too." "May I touch your face?" Quite simply Donelle knelt again and quivered as the delicate fingers passed over her brow, eyes, and mouth. "You have a soul!" murmured Revelle. "A soul?" murmured Donelle. "Ah! yes. You do not know. One never finds his soul until he suffers. You are young, but you have a soul. Keep it safe, safe; and while you wait, let me see if nature has made you for use. If you can learn, I shall find joy. I had thought my life was over." And so Donelle began to find her way out upon her road. *CHAPTER X* *PIERRE GETS HIS REVENGE* The first year passed, with those blessed weekends coming now, not as the only bright spots, but always loved. "The girl may not have the great genius," Revelle told Mrs. Lindsay, "she may not go much further, but as she goes, she goes radiantly. Her tone it is pure, her ear it is true, and her soul, it is a hungry soul, a waiting soul. She will suffer, but she will be the better for that. If she is ever to be great it will be when she has learned to know suffering." Donelle had a strange habit that amused them all; she played best when she could move about. Gropingly, painstakingly, she practised with the old, blind man beside her. At times she would wander under the trees on the lawn, her violin tucked lovingly under her chin. "Pretty, little pale thing," Alice Lindsay often said. "What is life going to do with her?"