One evening when he was in one of these moods--he had just had his
tea, the gas was lighted, and he was sitting as I have
described--Robert began to play in the next room, hoping that the
music would sink into his heart, and do something to prepare the way
for what was to follow. Just as he had played over the Flowers of
the Forest for the third time, his housekeeper entered the room, and
receiving permission from her master, went through into Andrew's
chamber, and presented a packet, which she said, and said truly, for
she was not in the secret, had been left for him. He received it
with evident surprise, mingled with some consternation, looked at
the address, looked at the seal, laid it on the table, and gazed
again with troubled looks into the fire. He had had no
correspondence for many years. Falconer had peeped in when the
woman entered, but the moment she retired he could watch him no
longer. He went on playing a slow, lingering voluntary, such as the
wind plays, of an amber autumn evening, on the ?olian harp of its
pines. He played so gently that he must hear if his father should
speak.
For what seemed hours, though it was but half-an-hour, he went on
playing. At length he heard a stifled sob. He rose, and peeped
again into the room. The gray head was bowed between the hands, and
the gaunt frame was shaken with sobs. On the table lay the
portraits of himself and his wife; and the faded brown letter, so
many years folded in silence and darkness, lay open beside them.
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