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Ten minutes later, he heard his wife cry out to him:

“To in the attic?”

AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, there was the old man He stood in front of the step-less house, as if not knohat to try next And then he took a quick step and looked down

Mr Wido ahead”

The old man bent over

“Pick it up!” cried Mr Widmer

The old man extended his hands

“Brush it off! I know, I know it’s dusty But it’s still fair enough Brush it off, use it!”

In the uitar in his hands It had been lying in thewhich the old ers

“Go on!” said Mr Widmer

There was a tentative chord of music

“Go on!” said Mr Widmer “What voices can’t do, ed Mr Wid under the apple trees and near the back porch, sing until the guitar notes shake her, sing until she starts to cry You get a woround Her pride will all wash away; and the best thing to start the dissolving and crying is“Genevieve, Sweet Genevieve, the years ht in Dreaht Bay,” and sing “There’s a Long, Long Trail Awinding,” and sing all those old su that’s old and quiet and lovely; do that, and keep on doing that; sing soft and light, with a few notes of the guitar; sing and play and perhaps you’ll hear the key turn in the lock!

He listened

As pure as drops of water falling in the night, the guitar played, soft, soft, and it was half an hour before the old , and it was so faint no one could hear; no one except so in the dark behind a shaded

Mr Wid the faraway guitar