Anna was sitting before the fire a little distance from him—Ennison himself remained standing. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. It was a “territory” back then, and many a Frenchman and a Redskin both had been devoured in those caves. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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