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sat in front of her own open fire； after her usual twilight walk。
It was her habit to wander down the wooded road after her simple
five…o'clock supper； gatherings ferns or goldenrod or frost flowers
for her vases； and one night she heard； above the rippling of the river；
the strange； sweet； piercing sound of Anthony Croft's violin。
She drew nearer； and saw a； middle…aged man sitting in the kitchen
doorway； with a lad of ten or twelve years leaning against his knees。
She could tell little of his appearance； save that he had a high forehead；
and hair that waved well back from it in rather an unusual fashion。
He was in his shirt…sleeves； but the gingham was scrupulously clean；
and he had the uncommon refinement of a collar and necktie。
Out of sight herself； Lyddy drew near enough to hear； and this she
did every night without recognizing that the musician was blind。
The music had a curious effect upon her。 It was a hitherto unknown influence
in her life； and it interpreted her； so to speak； to herself。
As she sat on the bed of brown pine needles； under a friendly tree；
her head resting against its trunk； her eyes half closed； the tone of
Anthony's violin came like a heavenly message to a tired； despairing soul。
Remember that in her secluded life she had heard only such harmony as Elvira
Reynolds evoked from her piano or George Reynolds from his flute；
and the Reynolds temperament was distinctly inartistic。
Lyddy lived through a lifetime of emotion in these twilight concerts。
Sometimes she was filled with an exquisite melancholy from which there was
no escape； at others； the ethereal purity of the strain stirred her heart with
a strange； sweet vision of mysterious joy； joy that she had never possessed；
would never possess； joy whose bare existence she never before realized。
When the low notes sank lower and lower with their soft wail of delicious woe；
she bent forward into the dark； dreading that something would be lost
in the very struggle of listening； then； after a； pause； a pure human tone
would break the stillness； and soaring； bird…like； higher and higher；
seem to mount to heaven itself； and； 〃piercing its starry floors；〃
lift poor scarred Lydia's soul to the very grates of infinite bliss。
In the gentle moods that stole upon her in those summer twilights she
became a different woman； softer in her prosperity than she had ever
been in her adversity； for some plants only blossom in sunshine。
What wonder if to her the music and the musician became one？
It is sometimes a dangerous thing to fuse the man and his talents
in this way； but it did no harm here； for Anthony Croft was his music；
and the music was Anthony Croft。 When he played on his violin； it was
as if the miracle of its fashioning were again enacted； as if the bird
on the quivering bough； the mellow sunshine streaming through the lattice
of green leaves； the tinkle of the woodland stream； spoke in every tone；
and more than this； the hearth…glow in whose light the patient hands
had worked； the breath of the soul bending itself in passionate prayer
for perfection； these； too； seemed to have wrought their blessed influence
on the willing strings until the tone was laden with spiritual harmony。
One might indeed have sung of this little red violinthat looked to Lyddy；
in the sunset glow； as if it were veneered with rubiesall that
Shelley sang of another perfect instrument：
〃The artist who this viol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought；
Fell'd a tree； while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep；
Rock'd in that repose divine
Of the wind…swept Apennine；
And dreaming； some of Autumn past；
And some of Spring approaching fast；
And some of April buds and showers；
And some of songs in July bowers；
And all of love； and so this tree
O that such our death may be！
Died in sleep； and felt no pain；
To live in happier form again。〃
The viol 〃whispers in enamoured tone：〃
〃Sweet oracles of woods and dells；
And summer windy ill sylvan cells； 。 。
The clearest echoes of the hills；
The softest notes of falling rills；
The melodies of birds and bees；
The murmuring of summer seas；
And pattering rain； and breathing dew；
And airs of evening； all it knew。。。。
All this it knows； but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it； 。。。
But； sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill；
It keeps its highest； holiest tone
For one beloved Friend alone。〃
Lyddy heard the violin and the man's voice as he talked to the child；
heard them night after night； and when she went home to the little
brown house to light the fire on the hearth and let down the warm
red curtains； she fell into sweet； sad reveries； and when she blew
out her candle for the night； she fell asleep and dreamed new dreams；
and her heart was stirred with the rustling of new…born hopes that rose
and took wing like birds startled from their nests。
V。
〃Nor scour the seas； nor sift mankind；
A poet or a friend to find：
Behold； he watches at the door！
Behold his shadow on the floor！〃
Emerson's _Saadi。_
Lyddy Butterfield's hen turkey was of a roving disposition。
She had never appreciated her luxurious country quarters in Edgewood； and was
seemingly anxious to return to the modest back yard in her native city。
At any rate； she was in the habit of straying far from home； and the habit
was growing upon her to such an extent that she would even lead her docile
little gobblers down to visit Anthony Croft's hens and share their corn。
Lyddy had caught her at it once； and was now pursuing her to that
end for the second time。 She paused in front of the house；
but there were no turkeys to be seen。 Could they have wandered up
the hill road；the discontented； 〃traipsing；〃 exasperating things？
She started in that direction； when she heard a crash in the Croft kitchen；
and then the sound of a boy's voice coming from an inner room；
a weak and querulous voice； as if the child were ill。
She drew nearer； in spite of her dread of meeting people；
or above all of intruding； and saw Anthony Croft standing over the stove；
with an expression of utter helplessness on his usually placid face。
She had never really seen him before in the daylight；
and there was something about his appearance that startled her。
The teakettle was on the floor； and a sea of water was flooding
the man's feet； yet he seemed to be gazing into vacancy。
Presently he stooped； and fumbled gropingly for the kettle。
It was too hot to be touched with impunity； and he finally left it
in a despairing sort of way； and walked in the direction of a shelf；
from under which a row of coats was hanging。 The boy called again in a
louder and more insistent tone； ending in a whimper of restless pain。
This seemed to make the man more nervous than ever。
His hands went patiently over and over the shelf； then paused
at each separate nail。
〃Bl