III-VIII

It was dark when Gordon closed the stable door
and turned to his dwelling. A light streamed
from a chink in the closed kitchen shutter like a
gold arrow shot into the night. From within came
the long-drawn quaver of William Vibard's performance
of the Arkansas Traveller. He was sitting
bowed over the accordion, his jaw dropped, his
eyes glazed with the intoxication of his obsession.
Rose was rigidly upright in a straight chair, her
hands crossed at the wrists in her meager lap.

The fluctuating, lamentable sounds of the instrument,
Rose's expression of conscious virtue, were
suddenly petty, exasperating; and Gordon, after a
short acknowledgment of their greeting, proceeded
through the house to the sitting room beyond.

No fire had been laid in the small, air-tight stove;
the room had a closed, musty smell, and was more
chill than the night without; his breath hung before
him in a white vapor. Soon he had wood burning
explosively, the stove grew rapidly red hot and the
chill vanished. He saw beyond the lamp with its
shade of minute, variously colored silks the effigy of

[[304]]

p303 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p304w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p305

v?