“Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient. But I've an idea as well as you, grounded in some measure upon Sheppard's story. . Instead, her husband was probably wise. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. “When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered. I'll call it my wedding gift. Hurry to me, I entreat you.
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