" She smiled, and returned to the spinsters. And they admired Kent sedulously from the windows. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. The girl is in it as deeply as he is. His voice had changed, the joy had gone out of it; and she understood that something from the past had rolled up to spoil this hour.
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