The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. Don’t be afraid that I shall stunt it. She was practicing with them on that very day, and displaced a rather mediocre boy violinist who claimed “to be better at the viola anyway” as first chair. It would not burden him with any obligation. Perceiving he was about to take leave, Kneebone ventured to ask whom he had had the honour of addressing. It’s Providence. You will agree with me when you have heard what I have to say.
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