It would do her good."
"She'd better read her Bible," said Ann, who, finding she could
no longer see, was lighting a candle.
"She does read her Bible," returned Mary; "and a little music
would, perhaps, help her to read it to better purpose."
"There, Ann!" cried the player.
The woman replied with a scornful grunt.
"Two fools don't make a wise man, for all the franchise," she
said.
But Mary had once more turned toward the musician, and in the
light of the candle was met by a pair of black eyes, keen yet
soft, looking out from tinder an overhanging ridge of forehead.
The rest of the face was in shadow, but she could see by the
whiteness, through a beard that clouded all the lower part of it,
that he was smiling to himself: Mary had said what pleased him,
and his eyes sought her face, and seemed to rest on it with a
kind of trust, and a look as if he was ready to do whatever she
might ask of him.
"You will come?" said Mary.
"Yes, miss, with all my heart," he replied, and flashed a full
smile that rested upon Ann, and seemed to say he knew her not so
hard as she looked.
Rising, he tucked his violin under his arm, and showed himself
ready to follow.
"Good night, Miss Byrom," said Mary.
"Good night, miss," returned Ann, grimly. "I'm sorry for you
both, miss. But, until the spirit is poured out from on high,
it's nothing but a stumbling in the dark.
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