the gate in the hedge, and turned along the country road to the
cross-roads where the big Interurban cars whizzed by.

All this happened with that unbroken continuity which was the
characteristic of the Marshall life, most marking them as different
from the other faculty families. Week after week, and month after
month, this program was followed with little variation, except for the
music which was played, and the slight picturesque uncertainty as
to whether old Reinhardt would or would not arrive mildly under the
influence of long Sunday imbibings. Not that this factor interfered at
all with the music. One of Sylvia's most vivid childhood recollections
was the dramatic contrast between old Reinhardt with, and without, his
violin. Partly from age, and partly from a too convivial life, the
old, heavily veined hands trembled so that he could scarcely unbutton
his overcoat, or handle his cup of hot coffee. His head shook too, and
his kind, rheumy eyes, in their endeavor to focus themselves, seemed
to flicker back and forth in their sockets. The child used to watch
him, fascinated, as he fumbled endlessly at the fastenings of his
violin-case, and put back the top with uncertain fingers. She was
waiting for the thrilling moment when he should tuck the instrument
away under his pendulous double chin and draw his bow across the
strings in the long sonorous singing chord, which ran up and down
Sylvia's back like forked lightning.

This was while all the others were tuning and scraping and tugging at
their pegs, a pleasant bustle of discord which became so much a
part of Sylvia's brain that she could never in after years hear the
strumming and sawing of an orchestra preparing to play, without seeing
the big living-room of her father's house, with its low whitewashed
ceiling, its bare, dully shining floor, its walls lined with books,