"Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. His shouts for help were answered by roars of mockery and laughter. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. There is no Heaven for your mother. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. "I'll admit that.
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