The Stolen Singer | Page 2

its nonchalant nurse, brought a bit of the woman's
emotion to the surface. She smiled radiantly at the lagging infant.
The face revealed by the uplifted veil was of a type to accompany the
youthful but womanly figure and the spirited tread. Beautiful she would
be counted, without doubt, by many an observer; those who loved her
would call her beautiful without stint. But more appealing than her
beauty was the fine spirit--a strong, free spirit, loving honesty and
courage--which glowed like a flame behind her beauty. Best of all,
perhaps, was a touch of quaintness, a slightly comic twist to her lips, an
imperceptible alertness of manner, which revealed to the initiated that
she had a sense of humor in excellent running order.
It was evident that the little excursion was of the nature of a pilgrimage.
The idle hour, the bit of holiday, became a memorial, as recollection
brought back to her the days of childhood spent down yonder, a few
squares away, in this very city. They seemed bright in retrospect, like
the pleasant paths of a quiet garden, but they had ended abruptly, and
had been followed by years of activity and colorful experience in
another country. Through it all what anticipations had been lodged in
her return to Home! Something there would complete the story--the
story with its secret ecstasies and aspirations--the story of the ardent
springs of youth.
Withdrawing her gaze from the scene below, though with apparent
reluctance, she took from the pocket of her coat an opened envelope

which she regarded a moment with thoughtfulness, before drawing
forth the enclosures. There were two letters, one of which was brief and
written in bad script on a single sheet of paper bearing a legal head. It
was dated at Charlesport, Maine, and stated that the writer, in
conformity with the last wish of his friend and client, Hercules Thayer,
was ready to transfer certain deeds and papers to the late Mr. Thayer's
designated heir, Agatha Redmond; also that the writer requested an
interview at Miss Redmond's earliest convenience.
Holding the half-opened sheets in her hand, the lady closed her eyes
and sat motionless, as if in the grasp of an absorbing thought. With the
disappearing child, the signs of life on the hillside had diminished. The
traffic of the street passed far below, the sharp click-click of a
pedestrian now and then sounded above, but no one passed her way.
The hum of the city made a blurred wash of sound, like the varying yet
steady wash of the sea. As she opened her eyes again, she saw that the
twilight had perceptibly deepened. Far away, lights began to flash out
in the city, as if a million fireflies, by twos and threes and dozens, were
waking to their nocturnal revelry.
On the hill the light was still good, and the lady turned again to her
reading. The other letter was written on single sheets of thin paper in an
old-fashioned, beautiful hand. Wherever a double-s occurred, the first
was written long, in the style of sixty years ago; and the whole letter
was as easily legible as print. Across the top was written: "To Agatha
Redmond, daughter of my ward and dear friend, Agatha Shaw
Redmond"; and below that, in the lawyer's choppy handwriting, was a
date of nearly a year previous. As Agatha Redmond read the second
letter, a smile, half of sadness, half of pleasure, overspread her
countenance. It ran as follows:
"ILION, MAINE.
"MY DEAR AGATHA:
"I take my pen in hand to address you, the daughter of the dearest
friend of my life, for the first time in the twenty-odd years of your
existence. Once as a child you saw me, and you have doubtless heard

my name from your mother's people from time to time; but I can
scarcely hope that any knowledge of my private life has come to you. It
will be easy, then, for you to pardon an old man for giving you, in this
fashion, the confidence he has never been able to bestow in the flesh.
"When you read this epistle, my dear Agatha, I shall have stepped into
that next mystery, which is Death. Indeed, the duty which I am now
discharging serves as partial preparation for that very event. This duty
is to make you heir to my house and estate and to certain accessory
funds which will enable you to keep up the place.
"You may regard this act, possibly, as the idiosyncrasy of an
unbalanced mind; it is certain that some of my kinsfolk will do so. But
while I have been able to bear up under their greater or less displeasure
for many years, I find myself shrinking before the possibility of dying
absolutely unknown and forgotten by you.