THE CRIMSON RIBBON
She had wept much during the past night, and early this morning she had risen and written a letter and sent it off to Doctor Horn.
During the morning her old friend had sent her a bouquet of flowers and an answer to her letter,—a few words written in the firm even hand of a strong-souled man, and a scrap of crimson ribbon.
And now the old lady sat by the side of her aged husband on the seat overlooking the steep cliff, looking out on to the bright greenness, on the blue of the heavens and the sea, listening to the beating of her fainting heart and preparing herself to speak. But she couldn't make up her mind to begin.
IV
A tall thin elderly gentleman in a shabby grey coat and faded grey felt hat came along, crunching the gravel of the path under his feet, and stood near the professor. He looked at the musicians and the dancers, screwing up his grey eyes to see them better. There was an expression of astonishment on his dry, nervous face.
"Pardon me," he said at last, raising his hat, "but what is this? What band is it?"
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