Kilmeny of the Orchard 
     
    
   
   
    
     bound, mutely and motionlessly, lost in 
     
     wonderment. Then a very natural curi- 
     
     osity overcame him. Who in Lindsay 
     
     could play a violin like that? And who 
     
     was playing so here, in this deserted old 
     
     orchard, of all places in the world? 
     
    

    
     He rose and walked up the long white 
     
     avenue, going as slowly and silently as 
     
     possible, for he did not wish to interrupt 
     
     the player. When he reached the open 
     
     space of the garden he stopped short in 
     
     new amazement and was again tempted 
     
     into thinking he must certainly be dream- 
     
     ing. 
     
    

    
     Under the big branching white lilac 
     
     tree was an old, sagging, wooden bench; 
     
     and on this bench a girl was sitting, play- 
     
     ing on an old brown violin. Her eyes 
     
     were on the faraway horizon and she did 
     
     not see Eric. For a few moments he stood 
     
     there and looked at her. The picture she 
     
     made photographed itself on his vision 
     
     to the finest detail, never to be blotted 
     
     from his book of remembrance. To his 
     
    

    
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