Well, the great doctor came and was there for hours and asked a terrific lot of questions--all about everything that had happened for years and years. He learned one thing that interested him more than anything else, he said. Do you remember the day last summer when we were there, sitting in the garden, and I played on my violin--how Miss Alixe came down in a great hurry and asked me to stop because it disturbed her sister? You may remember, too, that I was playing "Träumerei"--had played it twice? Well, she told the doctor that when Miss Cornelia heard that, she acted very much excited, cried, and twisted her hands and tried to speak. (She hasn't spoken an intelligible word since she had the "stroke.") Miss Alixe also told him how their favorite brother had played so much on the violin, particularly that same air. He said this was a most hopeful sign--it indicated that conditions were now such that there was a possibility of her reason and memory and even speech being restored, provided they could touch just the right note of association. After he had thought the matter over a long time he decided to try an experiment. And he selected me--little, insignificant _me_--to help! He had me come in and bring my violin and sit in the room with Miss Cornelia, a little behind her, so she would not notice me particularly. Then he had Miss Alixe and Cecily also sitting there in plain sight of her, just quietly sewing or reading and not paying any particular attention to any one. He and Aunt Minerva stayed outside, watching through the partly opened door. It was the first time I had ever seen Miss Cornelia (except that time when the shutter blew open), and, Janet, she is _magnificent_ looking--entirely different from what I had imagined! She is large and stately and imposing, with white hair like Miss Alixe's, piled under a lace cap, and great black eyes. She just sat there quietly knitting, and took no notice of any one. You would not have known that there was anything the matter with her, except that her face was almost expressionless--as if she wasn't thinking of anything at all. I can't describe it any other way. Well, there we sat, and at a given signal from the doctor outside the door I was to begin--very, very quietly and softly--to play the "Träumerei." You can just imagine how nervous I was--so much depended on my doing just the right thing! My hands shook, and my knees shook, and my heart thumped, and I thought I should never be able even to hold the bow. It seemed an age before the doctor raised his hand as a signal, but when he did I tucked the violin under my chin and fairly prayed that I shouldn't make a failure of my part, anyway!