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The cry of a bird, the soft stirring of the animals in the barns, the far barking of a watchful dog-all these Rosemary heard and the insects filled in the pauses. Country nights are no more absolutely silent than nights in the town or city, but some enchantment weaves the noises of the countryside into graceful harmony. The shrill, insistent chorus of insects was music, and when the mournful cry of a distant hoot owl came out of the woods that rose shadowy and dark across the white ribbon of road, why that was music, too. She rested her elbows on the low window sill and leaned forward, drinking in the scent of new hay and roses and dewy grass. It was a moonlight night, warm and sweet, and Rosemary knelt down with a little gasp at the loveliness spread before her. Are you awake, darling?ĭid you hear it, Mother? It couldn't be a violin-yes, it is Rosemary whispered someone from the doorway. Sarah and Shirley were asleep two minutes after their heads touched the pillow and the house was in darkness soon after, for they were all tired from the events of the day.īecause, said Winnie with terrible finality. They listened until his music had died away in the distance-always the Serenade, over and over. They caught a glimpse of him as he came out from behind the tree, saw the light flash on his bow and he was gone. For, hidden from the enthralled listeners, he played the Serenade through twice, lovingly, delicately, with a haunting yearning that held a touch of genius. Probably he sat down on the large rock at the side of the road to rest-to rest and play. Just as he reached a point opposite the house he must have stopped. His head was bent over his violin, and as he walked those unearthly sweet strains melted into the moonlight and became a part of the silver mist. They knew he was old for he was stooped and walked with the shuffling gait that comes from feebleness. Sure enough, as they watched, a halting figure came down the road which the moonlight had changed to a silver ribbon. Someone was playing Schubert's Serenade in the moonlight. Rosemary had inherited her passionate love for music from her, and her delight and wonder were no greater than her mother's as the music came nearer. Willis came across the room and knelt beside her daughter.
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She slipped softly to the floor, felt for and found her pretty white dressing gown and slippers-Rosemary was very fond of white-which were close at hand and, wrapping herself up comfortably, pattered over to the open window. After lying quietly in bed, staring into the soft darkness, she felt more wide-awake than ever. In her room, though, Rosemary did not find that sleep came immediately.