Strains of wild music filled the room--music which no man had ever heard before. A tender, half-hushed whisper, the tinkle of a brook, a twilight subtleness of shadow, then a low, crooning note, as if the brook had gone to sleep. Strange sounds of swaying branches came from the violin, with murmurs of a mighty wind, then, of a sudden, there seemed to be dawn. The tinkle of the brook began again, with a bird note here and there, at the beginning of a great crescendo which swept on and on, as the music of the river was woven in. Question, prayer, and mating call, from a thousand silvery throats, rioted through the tapestry of sound, then merged into a deep, passionate tone of infinite sweetness, as if the river had found the sea, or a man's tortured soul had come face to face with its ultimate peace. "Play," said Mad Margaret, brokenly, "play more." Once again the bow swept the strings, bringing forth a melody which breathed rest. It was quiet and hushed, like the woods at twilight, or the shore of a sea that knows no storm. Through it ran a haunting cadence, with the rhythm of a lullaby, and Margaret rocked her frail body back and forth, unconsciously keeping time. When it was finished, she sat quite still, but on her face was the rapt look of the seer. "I see blood," she said, very distinctly. "Much blood, then fire, and afterward peace." It was the old, old prophecy, which she had made a thousand times. "Much blood," she repeated, shaking her head sadly. "Where, Peggy?" asked Ronald, suddenly. "Here," she answered, making a wide circle with her arms. "What else do you see?" he asked again, looking at her intently. She drew her hand wearily across her forehead and closed her eyes for an instant, then went to him, and put her hands on his knees. "I see you," she said, meaningly. "Where, Peggy?" His voice was low and very gentle, as if he were speaking to a child. "Here, with the blood. You shall have many sorrows, but never your heart's desire." "Never my heart's desire?" "No. Many sorrows, at the time of the blood, but not that." "What is my heart's desire?" "It has not come, but you will know it soon." She looked at him keenly for an instant, then laughed mockingly, and almost before they knew it, she had darted out into the night like the wild thing that she was. No one spoke until after Chandonnais had put the violin in its place on the chimney-shelf and clambered up the ladder which led to the loft. "Who is she, Uncle?" "Nobody knows," sighed Mackenzie. "She appeared, unexpectedly, the very day we came here. Sometimes months go by without a glimpse of her, then, for a time, she will come every day." "How does she live?"