me!”

She looked with eager, searching eyes at Polly, and felt sure that she detected on her sister’s face the expression of a girl who has secret intelligence that a brooch is about to be presented to her. She hoped that she would be strong enough to resist the temptation to pinch Polly. She had no confidence in Polly’s self-control, however, should the book fall to Polly’s lot.

And thus they all trooped downstairs to supper, and the moment they had seated themselves there arose one septet of joyful exclamations, for between the knife and fork of every one lay a neat parcel wrapped up in cotton-wool and silken paper.

And Maria’s was a brooch—a beautiful mosaic design of the Pillar of Trajan.

And nobody had received anything that could possibly be called useful, so every one was happy.

And when Tom entered, after a dramatic interval, he was assailed on all sides by exclamations of gratitude. But he put his fingers in his ears for a few moments, and only removed them to be able more freely to repel the attacks made upon him by the girls. He could only receive one kiss at a time, though he did make a masterful attempt to take the two elders as a concerto allegro movement; the others he treated as a scherzo. He had the lordly air of the patron who flings his guineas about: the Italian jewellery had made a deep inroad upon a lira; but he was a generous man, and he loved his family. But his mother, being a thrifty soul—Mr. Foote thought her miserly—shook her head. She felt that he had been too lavish, not knowing anything about Italian jewellery.

CHAPTER II

“‘The greatest singer in England.’ Yes, that is what I heard,” said Tom, patting Betsy’s hand, which he held affectionately in his own. He had made quite an art of fondling hands, having been for four years in Italy. The family had returned to the drawing-room after supper, but as Mr. Linley and his son had begun to talk about music, the younger members had escaped to another apartment, the better to push on a nursery quarrel as to the respective value of their presents. The novelty of a newly returned elder brother was beginning to decline; he had eaten of the pie just as they had eaten of it, and now he was beginning to talk quite easily of music, when they had fully expected him to tell them some thrilling stories of Italian brigands full of bloodshed.

“She has sung better than any singer in England,” said the father; “but that does not make her the greatest singer.”

“Pacchierotti is the best critic in the world, and he told a company in my hearing three months ago that there is no singer in England who can compare with Miss Linley,” said Tom. “Why, the great Agujari herself allowed that in oratorio she could never produce the same impression as our Miss Linnet.”

“She spoke the truth, then, though she is an Italian,” said Mr. Linley.

“Ah, let us talk about something else,” cried Betsy. “Why should we talk of music within the first hour of Tom’s return to us? Surely we might have one evening of pleasure.”

Tom ceased fondling her hand and looked seriously into her face. And now the expression in their eyes was not the same. The soft, beseeching look that she cast at him was very different from the serious glance—it had something of reproach in it—with which he regarded her.

“We talk of music because there is nothing else worth talking about in the world,” said he, and she saw with dismay the strange light that burned in the depths of his eyes, while his glance passed suddenly beyond her face—passed away from her face, from the room, from the world altogether. She knew what that light meant, and she shuddered. She had seen it in Mr. Garrick’s face when he was playing in Hamlet; she had seen it in Mr. Gainsborough’s face when he was painting the picture of her and her brother; she had seen it in the plain face of little Dr. Goldsmith when he had repeated in her hearing the opening lines of his sublime poem, “The Traveller”; she had seen it in the face of Mr. Burke when he was making a speech. She knew what it meant—she knew that that light was the light which men call genius, and she shuddered. She knew that to have genius is only to have a greater capacity for suffering than other men. What she did not know was that people saw the same light in her eyes when she was singing, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

“What do you say?” cried the father, springing from his chair with a hand upraised. “What do you say, my son?”

“I say, sir, that we talk of music because there is nothing else in the world worth talking about,” said Tom stoutly.

With a cry of delight the father threw himself into his son’s arms.

“Thank God for that—thank God for that!” he murmured. “You have not worked in vain, my boy; I have not prayed in vain. The truth has been revealed to you. You are my son.”

“Can any one doubt that this is the truth?” said the boy.

Betsy saw that he was careful to avoid looking in her direction. That was why she felt that he was addressing her personally.

“No, no!” she said, catching his hand again. “No, no, dear Tom; no one in this house will doubt that music is the only subject worth a word, a thought. It is our life. Is there any better life? How we can gladden the hearts of all who come near us! Even at Oxford—I have sung a great deal at Oxford, you know—I have seen the tears upon the faces of those men—the most learned men in the world. Just think of a poor ignorant girl like myself being able to move a learned man to tears! Oh, there is nothing worth a thought in the world save only music. Let me sing to you now, Tom; you will be able to say if I have improved.”

Tom’s face glowed.

“We have wasted an hour over supper,” he said, and there was actually mournfulness in his voice. Happily his mother, the pie-maker, was not present; she had run from the room at the first mention of music. “I always think that eating is a huge waste of time. We might have been singing an hour ago. And what think you of this new instrument—the forte-piano—father? I have heard it affirmed that it will make even the harpsichord become obsolete. I laughed, having heard you play the harpsichord.”

“Burney talks much about the forte-piano,” said the father. “And Mr. Bach, who has been giving his concerts in the Thatched House in St. James’s Street, has surprised us all by his playing upon its keyboard; but, my son, ’tis less refined than my harpsichord.”

“No one will ever be able to invent any instrument that will speak to one as does your violin, Tom,” said Betsy. “You need have no fear that your occupation will soon be gone.”

Tom smiled.

“The violin is the only instrument that has got a soul,” said he. “Only God can create a soul. Doubtless God could make another instrument with a soul, to speak direct to the souls of men, but beyond doubt He has not done so yet.”

“And now you shall awaken all the soul which is in yours, and make it reveal its celestial mysteries to us,” said the father. “I am more than anxious to learn how you have progressed. I dare swear that you have not wasted your time in Italy?”

“Heaven only knows if I have done all that was in my power to do,” said the boy, after a curious pause.

He was staring at the furthest corner of the ceiling while he spoke. Then he got upon his feet and walked across the room and back again without speaking; then he threw himself down upon a sofa with a sigh.

“Now and again—only now and again—father, I think that I succeed in reaching the