The old man nodded,
he felt too ashamed to speak; he sat with his fine silver head
in his hands, while Felix took down and tuned the old violin,
on which so many godless lilts had been played in many a wild revel.
Mr. Leonard felt that he had failed his religion.
He could not give Naomi the help that was in it for her.
Felix drew the bow softly, perplexedly over the strings.
He had no idea what he should play. Then his eyes were caught
and held by Naomi's burning, mesmeric, blue gaze as she lay on her
crumpled pillow. A strange, inspired look came over the boy's face.
He began to play as if it were not he who played, but some
mightier power, of which he was but the passive instrument.
Sweet and soft and wonderful was the music that stole through
the room. Mr. Leonard forgot his heartbreak and listened
to it in puzzled amazement. He had never heard anything
like it before. How could the child play like that?
He looked at Naomi and marvelled at the change in her face.
The fear and frenzy were going out of it; she listened breathlessly,
never taking her eyes from Felix. At the foot of the bed
the idiot girl sat with tears on her cheeks.
In that strange music was the joy of the innocent, mirthful childhood,
blent with the laughter of waves and the call of glad winds.
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