Presently the sound of a piano floated out from the music room. The man stopped his pacing, listened for an instant, and then passed round to the side of the house. The French windows of the music room were opened, throwing elongated squares of light over the balcony and the grass beyond. He paused in the darkness and looked through one of them. There, like a painting framed by the window casing, was Pussy Thurston seated at the piano singing, while Maud sat near by listening. One of Miss Thurston’s most admired social graces was the gift of song. She had a small agreeable voice, and had been well taught; but the light, frail tones sounded thin in the wide silence of the night. It was the feebly pretty performance of the “accomplished young lady.” Shackleton listened with a slight smile that increased as the song drew to a close. As it ceased he moved away, the red light of his cigar coming and going in the darkness. “Singing!” he said to himself, “they call that singing! Wait till they hear my daughter!” CHAPTER VII THE REVELATION “Praised be the fathomless universe For life and for joy and for objects and knowledge curious, And for love, sweet love--but praise, praise, praise, For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death, The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I hear, And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled Death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.” --WHITMAN. From the day when Mrs. Willers had appeared with the news of Shackleton’s interest in her daughter, Lucy’s health had steadily waned. The process of decay was so quiet, albeit so sure and swift, that Mariposa, accustomed to the ups and downs of her mother’s invalid condition, was unaware that the elder woman’s sands were almost run. The pale intensity, the coldness of the hand gripped round hers, that had greeted her account of the recital at the Opera-House, seemed to the girl only the reflection of her own eager exultation. She was blind, not only from ignorance, but from the egotistic preoccupations of her youth. It seemed impossible to think of her mother’s failing in her loving response, now that the sun was rising on their dark horizon. But Lucy knew that she was dying. Her feeble body had received its _coup de grâce_ on the day that Mrs. Willers brought the news of Shackleton’s wish to see his child. Since then she had spent long hours in thought. When her mind was clear enough she had pondered on the situation trying to see what was best to do for Mariposa’s welfare. The problem that faced her terrified her. The dying woman was having the last struggle with herself.