It has. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. "I can readily see," he said, "why you'll always be as poor as a church mouse. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. If I could but——” To escape from her thoughts she began to undress, humming a light tune to herself, though her eyes were hot with unshed tears, and the sobs kept rising in her throat. " "I declare I don't know what to do," said Wood, burned by conflicting emotions. Now the sense of beauty was spreading to a multitude of hitherto unsuspected aspects of the world about her. 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. He would be so disappointed.
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