Christie looked and listened with hushed breath and expectant heart,
believing that some special answer was to be given her. But in a
moment she saw it was no supernatural sound, only the south wind
whispering in David's flute that hung beside the window.
Disappointment came first, then warm over her sore heart flowed the
tender recollection that she used to call the old flute "David's
voice," for into it he poured the joy and sorrow, unrest and pain,
he told no living soul. How often it had been her lullaby, before
she learned to read its language; how gaily it had piped for others;
how plaintively it had sung for him, alone and in the night; and now
how full of pathetic music was that hymn of consolation fitfully
whispered by the wind's soft breath.
Ah, yes! this was a better answer than any supernatural voice could
have given her; a more helpful sign than any phantom face or hand; a
surer confirmation of her hope than subtle argument or sacred
promise: for it brought back the memory of the living, loving man so
vividly, so tenderly, that Christie felt as if the barrier was down,
and welcomed a new sense of David's nearness with the softest tears
that had flowed since she closed the serene eyes whose last look had
been for her.
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