She looked hard at him, at first with annoyance; but his wonderful smile disarmed her, so she hobbled away shaking her head, turning round more than once to look again at the youthful stranger. She had left the door into the crooked little house wide open. Eric sat down once more upon the steps and continued his music. It was wonderful the peace it gave him; he needed nothing else--did not even try to think, leaving Fate to shape events around him. From the upper window trails of scarlet geraniums hung down over his head; a faint breeze fanned them, making some loose petals fall upon his knees. With a smile he gathered them in his hand, enjoying the beauty of their colour, letting them drop through his fingers, playing with them like a child. And now from inside the house he caught sounds of a sweet voice singing softly some old, old song. The notes rose and rose until they entirely filled the small house behind him. He looked up to the window, but could see only the red flowers against the rusty old wall. He rose and stood in the doorway, and listened to the voice that sounded like a bird singing in a wood, singing, singing to its mate a song of Love. It did not make his heart beat as it would have done the hearts of other youths, but it dawned upon him that the voice was human, and that it could only belong to a girl or a woman. Thoughts came but slowly to him as through a mist, because we know that since that fatal morning Eric Gundian had lost his wits. But Eric Gundian was still, to all outward appearance, the same beautiful young man, with the same face, the same golden hair, the same luminous smile that bespoke the simple trust of a pure soul.... Now, moved by some irresistible impulse, Eric walked into the house, and, led by the glorious voice, climbed the narrow dark stairs, up, up, as if he were mounting into the skies. Then before the open door of a small sunlit room, he suddenly paused, seized with wonder.... Sitting near the window, her fair head bent over her work, was a lovely maiden: she drew stitch after stitch through the snow-white linen, and the hand which held the shining thread moved backwards and forwards like a dove hovering over a gateway. As she worked the song burst from her lips; she sang and sang, with the glorious gladness of youth which has not yet known either sorrow or disappointment. There was nothing sad in her tune, it was all hope and joy and sweetness. Behind her head the geraniums made a fiery haze where the sun smote upon them with the blinding rays of summer. Then it was that Gundian felt all his soul awake with the longing that she would look up, so that he might see her eyes.... Perhaps they would be the eyes he was searching for. To-day, to-morrow, this hour, or the next he was sure to meet them. The maiden, all unconscious of his presence, sang on and on, from one song to another, the sweetness of her voice ringing through the stillness like glad Easter bells.