However, more than a few days passed, and still things were cool between Marigold and Rosy. Charlie seemed genuinely taken with Marigold, always making it a point to escort her home at night, sitting by her whenever they went to the movies, and generally going out of his way to make himself agreeable. Marigold appeared flattered by his attention, but, true to her word, she did not fall head-over-heels for his charm. Indeed, Sylvia wondered if her seeming indifference toward Charlie was half of her allure for him. He wasn't used to having to work to get a girl to like him. Most were so thrilled to be pursued by the handsome son of Mr. Justice Miller and the well-known elocutionist Ilse Burnley Miller that they swooned at his feet. Marigold, however, clearly did not think that there was any great honor conferred upon her. If anything, she acted as though it were an honor for her, a Lesley of Harmony Harbor, to deign to notice the attentions of Charlie. Sylvia admired her friend for this, but she still wasn't comfortable with the way things were going. Rosy was very obviously jealous of Marigold's simple beauty and unaffected charm, and never missed an opportunity to disparage her, while Marigold treated the Montreal girl with an icy disdain reminiscent of her grandmother. Things were so uncomfortable that Sylvia was doing her best to keep the two girls separate, which naturally meant that while she and Rosy were spending time together, Marigold and Charlie were together. All this was very troublesome to the young lady.

One evening, a week or so before Christmas, Sylvia found herself unexpectedly alone. She had planned on spending the evening with Rosy, but the other girl had developed a slight cough, and Aunt Ilse had decreed that she was to stay in bed until it was gone. Marigold and Charlie had already left for an evening drive in Uncle Perry's new car, and Sophie and Murray were visiting with their friends the Morgans. She wandered around the house like an unhappy shadow until her mother finally told in exasperation her to go find something to do. Sylvia put on her tam and coat and mittens and wandered outside and down the road toward Misty Hollow, thinking that she'd at least see if Marigold was back yet.

The house was closed up and dark; obviously, nobody was home. With a little sigh, Sylvia was turning around to go who knew where, when lovely strains of music caught her ear. Curiosity piqued, she followed it around to where a lanky young man was perched on the old stone fence, unmindful of the icy cold seeping through his coat, coaxing the most beautiful sounds from an old, battered fiddle. Sylvia caught her breath, enchanted. The combination of her mother's flash and her father's artistic sense came together in her at that moment, and illuminated the whole scene with an odd beauty—the rugged hired hand in his shabby clothes, the fine blue winter evening, the ancient stone fence and backdrop of dark spruces, and lilting through it all, the wild, unearthly music. She clasped her hands together and listened breathlessly to the song. In that moment, she felt as though she knew Mickey Lewis, as though his soul was being poured out through the notes, as though she could see past his unlovely exterior into his pure and beautiful spirit.

Then he turned his head and saw her, and the spell was broken. The bow dropped from his hand with a clatter, and a burning rush of red flooded his face, visible even in the twilit evening.

"Miss Sylvia"—he stammered pitifully. "I—I didn't see you there. The folks aren't here—they've all gone out. Miss Marigold went out with that Mr. Charlie—she'll be back sometime."

Sylvia felt dreadfully ashamed. "Oh, I'm so sorry for startling you!" she cried impulsively. "It was most wrong of me to eavesdrop, and I swear, it was truly unintentional. I just thought I'd see if Marigold was back, and then I heard you playing, and I just couldn't help but listen! Oh Mickey, you must allow to tell you—I'm just bursting with admiration—that was the most beautiful thing I've ever heard in my life. Oh, please don't be angry. I promise, I didn't intend to intrude."

In all the gush of words, his features started to relax, and he now even smiled somewhat. "No offense taken, Miss Sylvia. I jest saw that old moon, and something in me seemed to pour out to it. I'm like an old wolf, I guess, who jest has to howl at the moon—the good Lord put it in him. He put it in me too, I s'pose. There weren't no harm in you listening."

Sylvia felt vastly comforted, and without stopping to think about it, hopped up next to him on the fence. "Where did you learn to play like that?" she asked curiously. "Mother and Dad used to take us to concerts in Montreal, but I'm sure I've never heard anything so beautiful from any of those performers, even if they were trained in European conservatories."

Mickey shrugged. "My old dad taught me to scrape a bow across strings when I was naught but a little tyke. As for the rest of it—it jest comes to me. I can't explain it. It jest does itself."

Sylvia looked perplexed. "You're a genius, I guess. That's what Mother always says about her writing—and Dad about his painting—and Murray about his writing. Uncle Dean says that's the mark of a genius—it can't explain itself."

Mickey laughed heartily. "I'm no genius, Miss Sylvia. We're all jest as the good Lord made us, and I don't need no fancy title to describe me." He looked down at her with some concern. "You'll get a chill, sitting on this old fence. Shouldn't you run 'long home 'fore your folks start to fret?"

The smile vanished from Sylvia's face. "There's nothing for me to do back home. Mother is writing—Dad is visiting with Uncle Perry—Murray and Sophie are visiting Christine and David Morgan—Rosy is in bed with a cold—Charlie and Marigold are out driving."

"They didn't offer to take you with them? Selfish liddle critters," scowled Mickey.

"Oh, they didn't mean to be selfish!" cried Sylvia, aware that her lament came across as self-pity. "They would have asked me to come too, but then Aunt Ilse made Rosy go to bed. I didn't mean to complain." She smiled her slow, alluring smile at him.

Mickey, looking down at her sweet, delicate face, her eyes pools of mystery, her subtle charm highlighted by that smile, realized at that moment that he loved Sylvia Kent. He'd always cherished a strong fancy for her, ever since he'd come to Blair Water two years ago, but he knew better than to encourage it. She was as far out of his reach as that moon he'd been playing too. In fact, he'd been thinking of her as he'd been playing, which was why he was so startled when she suddenly appeared before him, looking like a piece of the winter night with her dark hair, white skin, and blue coat and hat.

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "You weren't complaining, Miss Sylvia," he said, trying to gather his scattered wits. "'Tis only natural to feel a bit lonely when all your friends have left you."

"I'm so glad you understand," she said gaily. "Mari always said you understood everything. I can't think how we haven't gotten acquainted before. But we are friends now, aren't we? And I may come and talk to you when things are troubling me, just like Mari does, mayen't I?"

Mickey's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was to have Sylvia around, tormenting him by her sweetness and unreachableness. Still, looking at her appealing face, he knew he could never refuse her anything she asked. "Of course."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in her girlish way. "Then may I ask you to play your fiddle again? I would so love to hear it."

That Mickey knew he could not do, no matter how much she pleaded. The stunning realization of his love for this girl was too fresh. He could not trust himself to play with her being so near, and not reveal his heart through his music. "I'm 'fraid I'm all played out tonight, Miss Sylvia," he said with an attempt at his old easy smile. "But why don't you tell me some o' these troubles you say you have?"

Sylvia gave a satisfied sigh. "That would be reassuring, although I think I'd prefer to hear you play. Still, it is nice to be able to pour out my worries to someone once in a while."

They sat there until Marigold and Charlie came back, cheeks red with cold, faces glowing with laughter. Marigold felt dreadfully that Sylvia had been left behind all alone, but for some reason that maiden couldn't feel sorry. Mickey was such a kind soul, and so very nice, that she almost wished Marigold and Charlie had waited a little longer before returning! Still, there was nothing for it but to bid Marigold and Mickey goodnight, and let Charlie escort her back to Hope Fulfilled.

"How strange," she mused to herself as she crawled into bed that night. "I feel ages older and more separated from yesterday. I wonder why that is? Maybe just because Mickey is so much older, that having him as a friend makes me feel older, too. It's odd—I almost don't like it." She gave a great yawn, and fell fast asleep, untroubled by the thoughts of love and hopelessness that kept Mickey awake that night.