It seemed to Ethne that they declaimed the pride which had come to her that day.

Her fancy grew into a belief.

It was no longer "If he should hear," but "He _must_ hear!" And so carried away was she from the discretion of thought that a strange hope suddenly sprang up and enthralled her.
"If he could answer!" She lingered upon the last bars, waiting for the answer; and when the music had died down to silence, she sat with her violin upon her knees, looking eagerly out across the moonlit garden.
And an answer did come, but it was not carried up the creek and across the lawn.

It came from the dark shadows of the room behind her, and it was spoken through the voice of Durrance.
"Ethne, where do you think I heard that overture last played ?" Ethne was roused with a start to the consciousness that Durrance was in the room, and she answered like one shaken suddenly out of sleep.
"Why, you told me.

At Ramelton, when you first came to Lennon House." "I have heard it since, though it was not played by you.