soul of the thing,” he said. “After long waiting and working and longing I sometimes hear its voice speaking to me, and then I feel that I am very near to God. Surely music is the voice of God speaking to the soul of man—speaking its message of infinite tenderness—gladness that is the gladness of heaven.... I think I have heard it, but not always—only at rare intervals. And I took up the violin when I was a child as if it were a simple thing—an ordinary instrument, and not a thing of mystery—a living thing!”

“You have learned the truth since those days!” cried the delighted father.

“The truth? Who is there alive that has learned the whole truth—the whole mystery of the violin?” said the boy. “I think that I have crept a little nearer to it during these years; that is all that I dare to say.”

“You are a musician,” said the father, and the tears of joy that were in his eyes were also in his voice. “The true musician is the one who fears to speak with assurance. He is never without his doubts, his fears, his hours of depression, as well as his moments of celestial joy. I thank heaven that I am the father of a musician.”

“I thought that I was a musician until I heard Pugnani,” said the son. “Hearing him showed me that I had not even crossed the threshold of the temple. Shall I ever forget that day? I was sent by my master with a message to his house on that hill where the olive-trees mingle with the oranges and the vines. I remember how the red beams of the sun at its setting swept across the Arno, and crept among the olives, and blazed upon the oranges till they seemed like so many lamps half hidden among the glossy foliage.”

“Would that I had been with you!” said Betsy in a twilight voice.

“Ah, if you had but been with me, you would have learned more of music in half an hour than you could acquire elsewhere in a lifetime,” said her brother.

“He played for you?” said the father.

“Yes, he played. The words are easily said. The villa is a lovely one, and when I reached the entrance, walking through the orange-grove, the sun had sunk, and from a solitary oleander a nightingale had begun to sing in the blue twilight. I stood listening to it, and feeling how truly Handel had interpreted the bird’s song.”

“Betsy shall sing you the aria ‘Sweet Bird’ when you have told us your story,” said Mr. Linley.

“I entered during the first pause, for there was no bell to ring—my master had told me not to look for a bell or to call for a servant; the Maestro does not live as other men. The hall was empty; but I had received my instructions to wait there, and I waited until a man strolled in after me from the garden. He wore the common blouse of the Italian peasant, and carried a pruning-knife in one hand and a huge bunch of grapes in the other. I took him for a gardener, and the low bow which he made to me confirmed this impression. In replying to his courteous ‘Buona sera, signore,’ I told him that if he should chance to find Signore Pugnani in the villa, I would thank him greatly if he would let him know that I brought a message from Maestro Grassi. ‘Signore Pugnani will be here presently,’ said he. I thanked him, and, wishing to be civil, I said: ‘His garden does you great credit—you are, I venture to think, his gardener?’ ‘Alas! sir,’ said he, smiling,‘I am a much humbler person than his gardener. I have, it is true, dared to cut a bunch of grapes, but I am even now trembling at my boldness. I shall have to face the gardener before night, for he is sure to miss it. You are one of Maestro Grassi’s pupils, sir?’ he added; and when I assented, ‘I, too, am learning to play the violin,’ he said. ‘It is very creditable to you to wish to master the instrument,’ said I. ‘You must have many opportunities in this household of hearing good music. Your master is, I believe, one of the greatest composers. I am overcome with admiration of his night piece—La Voce della Notte, he has called it.’ ‘I have heard him play it,’ said he—‘at least I think I recollect it. I fancy I should recall it fully if you were to play a few bars of the prelude.’ He picked up a violin which, with its bow, was lying on a cushion on the settee of the hall, and began tuning it. When he had satisfied himself that the instrument was in tune, he handed it to me. ‘Have you memory sufficient to play a few bars of the Andante?’ he inquired. ‘Oh, I can play the thing throughout,’ said I eagerly. I prided myself on having mastered the Andante, and I did not hesitate to play it. In the dimness of that twilight in the hall, through which the scents of the orange-trees floated—I can perceive the delicate perfume of that Italian evening still—I played the Andante.”

The narrator paused, and then, lying back in his chair, he laughed heartily. His father smiled; his sister was grave.

“You played it creditably, I hope? You were in the presence of the composer, I begin to see,” said Mr. Linley.

“Of course the stranger was Signore Pugnani, but I did not know it until he had taken the instrument from me,” said the son. “He was courteous in his compliments upon my performance. ‘I am but a pupil of that wonderful instrument,’ said he, ‘but I clearly perceive that you treat it with reverence. Would I tire you if I were to submit to your criticism my recollection of La Voce della Notte, sir?’ I replied, of course, that he should find in me an indulgent critic, and I made up my mind to be indulgent. And then—then—he held the bow for a long time over the string—I scarce knew when he began to make it speak. I scarce knew whence the sound came. All the mystery of night was in that single note; it was an impassioned cry for rest—the rest brought by night. While it sounded I seemed to hear the far-off cry of the whole creation that travaileth, yearning for the rest that is the consummation of God’s promises. Again he moved the bow, and that wailing note increased.... Ah, how can I express the magic of that playing?... I tell you that in a moment before my eyes the dim hall was crowded with figures. I sat in amazement watching them. They were laughing together in groups. Lovely girls in ravishing dishevelment flung roses up to the roof of the hall, and the blooms, breaking there, sent a shower of rosy perfumed petals quivering and dancing like butterflies downward. Children ran to catch the frail falling flakes, and clapped their hands. Men old and young sang in varying harmonies, and at intervals of singing quaffed sparkling wine from cups of glass. Suddenly, while all were in the act of drinking, the goblets fell with a crash upon the pavement, and the red wine flowed like blood over the mosaics of the floor. When the crash of the glasses had rung through the hall there was a moment of deathly silence, and then, far away, I heard once more the wailing of a great multitude. It drew closer and closer until men, women, and children in the hall joined in that chorus of ineffable sadness—that cry of the world for the rest which has been promised. They lay on the pavement before my eyes, wailing—wailing....

“Silence followed. The hall became dark in a moment; I could not have seen anything even if my eyes had been dry. They were not dry: that second wail had moved me as I had never before been moved. The darkness was stifling. I felt overwhelmed by it, but I could not stir. I remained bound to my seat by a spell that I could not break. But just as I felt myself struggling for breath, a long ray of moonlight slipped aslant the pavement of the hall, and the atmosphere became less dense. In a few moments the hall was filled with moonlight, and I saw that, just where