Robins were whistling , clear and sweet and sudden , in the woods all about him . `` This is a veritable ` haunt of ancient peace , ' '' quoted Eric , looking around with delighted eyes . `` I could fall asleep here , dream dreams and see visions . What a sky ! Could anything be diviner than that fine crystal eastern blue , and those frail white clouds that look like woven lace ? What a dizzying , intoxicating fragrance lilacs have ! I wonder if perfume could set a man drunk . Those apple trees now -- why , what is that ? '' Eric started up and listened . Across the mellow stillness , mingled with the croon of the wind in the trees and the flute-like calls of the robins , came a strain of delicious music , so beautiful and fantastic that Eric held his breath in astonishment and delight . Was he dreaming ? No , it was real music , the music of a violin played by some hand inspired with the very spirit of harmony . He had never heard anything like it ; and , somehow , he felt quite sure that nothing exactly like it ever had been heard before ; he believed that that wonderful music was coming straight from the soul of the unseen violinist , and translating itself into those most airy and delicate and exquisite sounds for the first time ; the very soul of music , with all sense and earthliness refined away . It was an elusive , haunting melody , strangely suited to the time and place ; it had in it the sigh of the wind in the woods , the eerie whispering of the grasses at dewfall , the white thoughts of the June lilies , the rejoicing of the apple blossoms ; all the soul of all the old laughter and song and tears and gladness and sobs the orchard had ever known in the lost years ; and besides all this , there was in it a pitiful , plaintive cry as of some imprisoned thing calling for freedom and utterance . At first Eric listened as a man spellbound , mutely and motionlessly , lost in wonderment . Then a very natural curiosity overcame him . Who in Lindsay could play a violin like that ? And who was playing so here , in this deserted old orchard , of all places in the world ? He rose and walked up the long white avenue , going as slowly and silently as possible , for he did not wish to interrupt the player . When he reached the open space of the garden he stopped short in new amazement and was again tempted into thinking he must certainly be dreaming .
Under the big branching white lilac tree was an old , sagging , wooden bench ; and on this bench a girl was sitting , XXXXX on an old brown violin .
came deserted dreaming looking play playing refined started translating whistling