"Of course, you can't understand--how could you? You are 'Nature' and
'Nature' must often be puzzled by the things that 'Civilization' does."

"Yes. I think that is true," she agreed. "But I'm glad you like my music,
anyway."

"And so am I glad--that I _can_ like it. That's the only thing that saves
me."

"And your friend, the artist,--does he like my mountain music, do you
think?"

"Very much. He needs it too."

"I am glad," she answered simply. "I hoped he would like it, and that it
would help him. It was really for him that I have played."

"You played for him?"

"Yes," she returned without confusion. "You see, I did not know about
you--then. I thought you were altogether the man who wrote those
books--and so I _could_ not play for you. That is--I mean--you
understand--I could not play--" again she seemed to search for a word, and
finding it, smiled--"I could not play _myself_ for you. But I thought that
because he was an _artist_ he would understand; and that if I _could_ make
the music tell him of the mountains it would, perhaps, help him a little
to make his work beautiful and right--do you see?"

"Yes," he answered smilingly, "I see. I might have known that it was for