When the carpenter a moment afterwards stretched out his hand, scarcely knowing whether he was alive or dead, he found himself alone. But I waited in vain. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. What would happen to her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?—as it had been those other times? Music—that took out of her the sense of reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. It struck his forehead, splitting it, and brought him to his knees. The carpenter did not hesitate a moment. "These writer chaps are queer birds.
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