I'm so glad, glad to be home again--to see old 'San Berdo' and 'Gray Back' and all the rest of them up there!" She stretched out her arms as if in answer to a welcome from the hills.

Then, whirling quickly, she gave the violin to her companion on the porch.

"Play, Myra; please, dear, play." At her word, the music of the violin began again--coming now, from behind the trunk of the sycamore.

In the hands of the unseen musician, the instrument laughed and sang a song of joyous abandonment--of freedom and rejoicing--of happiness and love--while in perfect harmony with the spirit and the rhythm of the melody, the girl danced upon the firm, green carpet of grass.

Here and there, to and fro, about the little glade shut in from the world by its walls of living green, she tripped and whirled in unstudied grace--lightly as if winged--unconscious as the wild creatures that play in the depths of the woods--wayward as the zephyr that trips along the mountainside.
It was a spontaneous expression of her spiritual and physical exaltation and was as natural as the laughter in her voice or the flush upon her cheeks.