Schofield, was enjoying a walk in the far end
of town with a widow, and it is not to be doubted that Mr. Tipworthy's
heart, also, was no longer in his possession, though, as it was after
eight o'clock, the damsel of his desire had probably long since retired to
her couch.
For some faint light on the cause of these spells, we must turn to a
comment made by the invaluable Mr. Martin some time afterward. Referring
to the lady to whose voice he was now listening in silence (which shows
how great the enthralling of her voice was), he said: "When you saw her,
or heard her, or managed to be around, any, where she was, why, if you
couldn't git up no hope of marryin' _her_, you wanted to marry
_somebody_."
Mr. Lige Willetts, riding idly by, drew rein in front of the lighted
windows, and listened with the others. Presently he leaned from his horse
and whispered to a man near him:
"I know that song."
"Do you?" whispered the other.
"Yes; he and I heard her sing it, the night he was shot."
"So!"
"Yes, sir. It's by Beethoven."
"Is it?"
"It's a seraphic song," continued Lige.
"No!" exclaimed his friend; then, shaking his head, he sighed: "Well, it's
mighty sweet."
The song was suddenly woven into laughter in the unseen chamber, and the
lights in the windows went out, and a small lady and a tall lady and a
thin old man, all three laughing and talking happily, came down and drove
off in the Briscoe buckboard.
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