“We’re all for love,” the violins said.

Sidney Lanier.

Robin’s music was a source of great delight to both of them. There was such a sense of time, infinite and unlimited, that they ceased to be the hurrying mortals of earth. The joy of life crept into their hearts, and they grew young with the new world.

One evening they watched the full moon come up over the mountains. She had been playing a few desultory airs, and looking up asked,

“Who is it says ’music is love in search of a word’?”

“If you don’t know, I’m sure I don’t,” answered Adam, laughing. “Do you know that you quote entirely too much?”

“Oh, yes,” she said lightly. “I always knew that if I ever should break into print, the critics, supposing they ever deigned to notice me, would say, as they said of Lubbock’s ‘Beauties of Life,’ that it wasn’t a book, but a compendium of useful quotations. But do you really dislike quoting? I think it takes as much or nearly as much originality to quote well as to invent.”

“Oh, no!” he interposed.

“No? Well, it seems so to me. I think the thing first myself, that is original so far as I am concerned, though it may be old as the hills, and then it comes to me afterward, in a dozen ways, perhaps, as other people have said it. I realize that in the kaleidoscope of life the pattern before my mind’s eye approximates that which others have seen. We don’t say a man knows too many synonyms or antonyms, and I don’t see much difference.”

“I have a misty memory that quotation is said to be a confession of inferiority,” answered Adam.

“That’s Emerson,” she said, laughing; “but he also says, ’genius borrows nobly,’ and I am willing to confess inferiority to a great many people; all that implies is that one should only quote well. If it wasn’t that I’m not sure of the words, and that I can’t verify them, I should confound you with a citation from Disraeli.”

“Go on,” said Adam, lazily; “I don’t mind being crushed.”

“It is to the effect that people think that where there is no quotation there must be great originality. Then he says, ’the greater part of our writers, in consequence, have become so original that no one cares to imitate them; and those who never quote are seldom quoted.’ That’s about it. Now are you answered?” She laughed gleefully. “It is delicious to disagree with you. I had almost forgotten that it was possible.”

He echoed her laugh with the carefree heartiness of a boy. “I am going to make a riddle,” he said. “Prepare yourself; this is the first conundrum of the new world. Why is it better to disagree than to differ?”

She made a little grimace. “It’s a wonder the Sphinx does not rise from the other side of the world and eat you,” she said with derision. “Anybody who loved anybody could answer such a poor little excuse for a riddle as that; besides, it sounds like an extract from somebody’s ‘First Easy Lessons in Rhetoric.’ Don’t you see that I can disagree with you, while I must differ from you? That is too disgracefully easy. Indeed, Adam, that riddle of yours brings back every doubt, for they say scientists and ologists and learned people, you know that there is hope for delinquents and defectives, but none for degenerates, and that is an awfully degenerate joke.”

“Play for me,” he said, “and don’t call names.”

She lifted the bow and drew it across the strings in a series of cadences so wildly mournful that he shuddered. She put the bow down, and laid her hand upon the strings to still them. In the old days she had been given to sudden changes of mood, but of late she had been almost serene.

“What is it?” he asked gently.

“Oh, nothing, everything! I was thinking of another thing which those wise ones said,” she answered, with more bitterness than she had shown for many months. “It was that word ‘degenerate’ brought it back. You know birds are a very low order of being, a branch of the reptile family, in truth, and I have heard people say that musicians are generally lacking in something. They either have no moral or financial sense, and cannot be bound by ordinary rules. And I am musical to the very tips of my fingers. It is as if I could hear the song of the silence, I feel its vibrations like those of a great organ.”

She walked up and down, her hands back of her head, and the moonlight shining on her upturned, troubled face.

“There is another scientific fact you forget,” he said.

She stopped to listen, and he went on.

When a race has run its course, nature cries habet, and nothing can alter its fate. It was not alone the merciless onslaughts of the white man that exterminated the buffalo. They died, and none came to take their places. They vanished, less on account of mans cruelty than by reason of their own sterility. Degenerates or regenerates, cant we leave the decision with a power that forever builds or destroys, in accordance with a law we do not understand, a higher law that comes from the source of all law, whatever that source may be? Dont think any more, but play for me. In spite of my lecture, I will quote too; my mother used to sing a hymn that went like this,

’I’d soar and touch the heavenly strings,
And vie with Gabriel while he sings,

Do you know it?”

She began the old tune, “Ariel,” and then wandered on, playing many airs that brought back forgotten days. Adam threw himself down on the grass to listen, half jealously, for she seemed to forget everything. She had seated herself on a great boulder, and, leaning back against it, her eyes looking into the blue depths above her, she played on and on. The old tunes were merged in new ones, and the high sustained notes of the Cavalleria, the subtle minor of Wagner, the exquisite sweetness of Beethoven and Schubert filled the moonlit canon, and still she played on, melodies new to Adam, intoxicating, full of a wild ecstasy, that filled his very soul, and thrilled through him till he felt all power of resistance swept away. Every other desire in the world was lost in the supreme and overwhelming longing to gather her to his heart and hold her there forever. The very air was steeped in melody. The full majestic chords rose and melted in unison with the high, exquisitely sweet notes, and throbbed their life away. She held the bow suspended a moment, then very softly, half unconsciously, played a dreamy lullaby, and laid the violin down in her lap.

Adam took her and it into his arms.

“Be careful, put it down gently,” she said faintly; “it is your soul and mine. Do you not know the secret of Antonio Stradivari, of all the great makers of violins? Ah, they solved our riddle, Love, ages ago. Do you not remember the story of Jacob Steiner, and how he spent days and days in the woods, selecting the trees for his violins, and how the spirits of the trees revenged themselves by telling him of their ruined lives till he went mad?”

“But there was no madness in this music,” Adam answered, “except, except

“The supreme, sublime madness of love? Do you not know, surely you do, that every perfect violin is as much man and woman as you and I? The back of the violin is made from the timber of the female tree, the belly of the male tree. The harmony depends on their vibrations, as they clasp each other in an embrace as real

“As this,” he cried, drawing her closer, and bending his handsome head until their lips met. “Sweet, must I envy that violin?”

He felt her heart beating wildly against his own, their arms closed around each other convulsively. The sweetness of the music-laden, flower-scented air filled his senses.

“God! how I love you!” he said.

A frightened look came into her eyes, and she struggled, for a moment, futilely.

“Let me go!” she whispered; “let me go!”

“Do you want me to?” he answered, studying her face in the moonlight.

“No,” she said. “No, never again, but, oh, Adam!”