Old Abel did not notice him; he was beating time with uplifted hand
and smiling face to Felix's music, and his eyes were young again,
glowing with laughter and sheer happiness.
"Felix! what does this mean?"
The violin bow clattered from Felix's hand upon the floor;
he swung around and faced his grandfather. As he met the passion
of grief and hurt in the old man's eyes, his own clouded
with an agony of repentance.
"Grandfather--I'm sorry," he cried brokenly.
"Now, now!" Old Abel had risen deprecatingly.
"It's all my fault, Mr. Leonard. Don't you blame the boy.
I coaxed him to play a bit for me. I didn't feel fit to touch
the fiddle yet myself--too soon after Friday, you see.
So I coaxed him on--wouldn't give him no peace till he played.
It's all my fault."
"No," said Felix, throwing back his head. His face was as white
as marble, yet it seemed ablaze with desperate truth and scorn of old
Abel's shielding lie. "No, grandfather, it isn't Abel's fault.
I came over here on purpose to play, because I thought you had
gone to the harbour. I have come here often, ever since I have
lived with you."
"Ever since you have lived with me you have been deceiving me
like this, Felix?"
There was no anger in Mr.
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